


Everybody Sees Your Lonely Heart

by chileancarmenere



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Dragon Age AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chileancarmenere/pseuds/chileancarmenere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marian Hawke leaves for the Deep Roads, two of her companions leave for the Gallows; one by choice and one by force. Merrill is arrested and taken to the Gallows on the same day that Carver applies to join the templars. The life there is not what either of them expected. Merrill tries desperately to fix the eluvian that Carver smuggled in for her, while Carver deals with his own growing addiction to lyrium. But their life together is fragile, and Kirkwall is beginning to shake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my DABB fic! Many thanks to wantthepharaohs for her last minute beta-fu. Any errors are solely my bad. And many, many thanks to linaleah for her gorgeous artwork, which you can check out at http://linaleah.tumblr.com/post/36889125815/everybody-sees-your-lonely-heart-by-linaleah-my  
> Lyrics at the beginning are from Mumford and Sons' The Enemy.

_We will meet back on this road_

_Nothing gained, truth be told_

_But I’m not the enemy_

_It isn’t me, the enemy_

 

On the walk back to Gamlen’s hovel, Mother keeps a firm grip on his elbow and a steady stream of chatter up.

“I’m sorry that you feel that way, darling, but I can’t lose both of you to the Deep Roads. Not that your sister will be lost down there, but it’s just too soon after Bethany…and I couldn’t. I hope you understand. Please, Carver, you and Marian are the last two that I have left. And there are jobs here too, you don’t have to sit around and wait for your sister to come back, there are things you can do. The house is in dreadful shape, I’m sure Gamlen wouldn’t mind if you tried to fix it up some…”

Carver tunes her out, concentrates instead on winding his way through the midday press of people in Lowtown. The streets are filthy. His boots are covered in muck, a mixture of vomit and shit that lends Lowtown its distinctive aroma. Every day he slogs through it to check the postings in Hightown for work, and every day he goes home and cleans off his boots with nothing to show for his trip. He shoves his way past a gaggle of harried shoppers bargaining for a lower price and he has to bite down the scream of frustration at the way Marian had tossed him aside so casually. That she has forgotten everything he did for her; from his efforts at keeping them safe and away from the templars to the coin he brought in doing mercenary jobs, burns at his throat. He had asked Varric to intercede, but the dwarf had shot a wary look Marian’s way and shrugged, saying “Sorry, Junior.”

Everyone obeys Marian’s word. He had done so, too. When she glanced his way and then at Mother, and shook her head _no_ , he had been stunned into compliance.

He hates himself for it.

“…and after all, it’s not as though you’re the only one left here. There’s Aveline, I could ask her to come over for dinner…”

At this, Carver finally, unwillingly, laughs. “Mother, Aveline hates Gamlen.”

“Well…true. But still, she cares about you, I know she does, and…”

If Aveline had really cared about him, she wouldn’t have blocked his admission to the guards. But he doesn’t voice this. He doesn’t need his mother to formulate more excuses on the behalf of others.

Gamlen greets them at his door with a forbidding scowl. “I thought you were supposed to be halfway underground by now.”

Carver isn’t in the mood to explain himself. He shoves past Gamlen brutally, and disappears into the small room where he sinks down on the bed, holding his head in his hands. He feels like he’ll be trapped in small rooms behind closed doors all his life, screaming inside without the courage to say so.

“I thought Marian was going to take him with her,” he hears Gamlen complaining. “He’s just one more mouth to feed.”

“Don’t say that,” his mother threatens, and he imagines her jabbing a finger into Gamlen’s face. “He’s been putting the food on your table since we got here. Him and Marian. So don’t you dare say anything to him.”

“What’s he going to do then?” Carver hears a thud, and he guesses Gamlen’s brought his fist down on the back of a chair. “Is he just going to lay around in the stews like every other Ferelden refugee? When’s that boy going to do something with himself?”

“He has been!”

“Aye, running mercenary errands with his sister. Without Marian here, he’s just going to be lost.”

Carver scowls, and flops down on the bed, trying to shut his ears to their argument. He wraps the blanket around him, and burrows his head deep into the pillows, knowing it’s childish but somehow unable to help it. It makes it all the more humiliating, then, when his door is unceremoniously flung open and Isabela strolls in.

“What the…”

“I’m here on a mission of mercy, sweet thing,” Isabela says, smirking. She bends down and rips the blanket off him. “Hmm, you don’t sleep nude. What a shame. I’m here to take you to the Hanged Man, where we shall get uproariously drunk and forget about this whole Deep Roads business.”

“’M not interested,” he growls, and tries to yank the blanket back. With a swift movement, Isabela snatches it up, twists it and cracks it at the backs of his thighs. “Ow!”

“Oh, get out of bed and stop moping. Merrill’s there already. I tried to convince Aveline to show but she said she had other things to do.” Isabela pauses and looks down on him, a wicked glint in her eyes. “I told Kitten I’d teach her how to do body shots. Surely you wouldn’t want to miss out on that?”

Carver tells himself firmly to keep his head buried in the pillow, but his cheeks flame at the very thought. “I…fine, I’m up.”

“Thought that’d do the trick.” Isabela tosses the blanket down. “Come on, then.”

 

When they reach the Hanged Man, the sun is starting to set. Merrill has a table in the corner, set with three mugs of ale. When she sees them, she waves excitedly. “I thought you’d come! I bought the ale already,” she says aside to Isabela. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Kitten, I _never_ turn down a free drink.” Isabela slouches into her chair and kicks her boots up on the table.

“Thanks,” he mutters, burying his face in it. The Hanged Man doesn’t match his mood today: he wants to be sullen and grumpy, and the bar’s rowdy drunkenness isn’t helping.

“What is it?” Merrill asks, all innocence and smiles. He winces. “Oh! Oh, Carver, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think.”

“It’s all right,” he lies. “It’s not a big deal, really.”

“Yes, that’s why you had your face stuffed in your pillow when I found you,” Isabela says, amused. “Here’s a tip, sweet thing: you shouldn’t be face-down in your bed in the afternoon unless you’re too drunk to see straight.”

Carver harrumphs and drinks half of his mug in one straight go. She wants him to be drunk, fine, he’ll be drunk. Maybe then it’ll be easier to bear Isabela’s smirks or Merrill’s quiet sympathy.

Five mugs later, Carver’s pockets are empty, and Isabela refuses to float him a loan. He finds it completely unreasonable, as he’s not even that drunk…although he does seem to be crashing into chairs more often when he gets up. Isabela flicks a glance at him as he tries to stagger to his feet, and plants her elbows firmly on the table. “Well, Kitten, do you want to learn how to do body shots?”

Merrill claps. She actually claps with glee. Carver tries to give her his best you-aren’t-even-prepared-for-this-and-Isabela-is-going-to-make-you-regret-this look, but he finds it a little hard to do with all the alcohol in his system. “Oh yes!” she chirps, and Carver lowers his forehead to the table and groans.

“Cheer up,” Isabela says, patting his arm. “You’ll have fun.”

 

He ends up winding his way home alone, hoping that the ground will open up and swallow him, rather than having to remember _that_ embarrassment. Lowtown is dark, with a sickly glow on the horizon from the ironworks, and the whores and thieves are out in droves. They leave him alone, because it’s clear that he’s carrying nothing of value on him at all, or maybe because they can smell the desperation and humiliation on him.

Carver keeps seeing Merrill’s wide green eyes, filled with disappointment, in his mind; he keeps hearing Gamlen’s voice in his head – _the boy won’t amount to anything._ He hears Isabela’s mocking laugh – _Junior, you’re supposed to lick, not throw up_ , feels the coldness of Marian’s goodbye to him. He hurts and he feels that he can’t bear it anymore. When he reaches Gamlen’s house he kicks the door in moodily, and falls straight into a deep and troubled sleep.

The fall morning dawns bright and crisp and cool, not a cloud in the sky. Carver wakes up early, the stale beer pounding in his temples, and brews a cup of tea before anyone else is awake. By the time he finishes his mug, he knows what to do.

 

Mornings have always been Merrill’s favorite time. When she lived with her clan, she would go and berry-pick early in the mornings. She might take some rosehip tea with her, and find a rough, warm boulder to sit on and watch the sunrise come in.

There’s no chance of seeing a sunrise in the alienage. She used to get up early on purpose to try and see one, but the smog over Lowtown and the tall, looming buildings block any hope of seeing the sun. Most mornings, the best they get is an orangey haze, and since the ironworks are to the east, a sunrise is indistinguishable from the factories getting started early.

Merrill doesn’t forgo her rosehip tea, though. It comforts her, somehow, to keep a ritual of the clan, even though she no longer prays unless something’s gone wrong, and only then it’s with a guilty feeling that the Creators know her lapsed faith. As she sits cross-legged at her table and sips her tea, she prays, trying her hardest to feel something again, hoping for their blessing on what she does today.

After breakfast, she goes to the loose floorboard and pulls it up. Weak morning light glints on the broken shards of the mirror hidden there. She pulls away another floorboard and hauls up the broken mirror. It lies in two great pieces, with seven smaller parts. Merrill has put it together and taken it apart time and time again since she smuggled it in here, but she’s always known that simply piecing it together like a smashed plate won’t make the mirror _work_ again. It won’t show her what she wants to see: Mahariel’s copper hair in the sunlight, Tamlen’s crooked smile. She sits there for a long time, holding the largest chunk carefully in her lap. If she is completely honest with herself – and she prefers to be – it isn’t for the glory of the Dalish and Arlathan that she wants to fix the mirror. It’s a purely selfish desire to see her friends again, and a time when her clan respected her for who she is.

Merrill spends her morning carefully setting the mirror up against a corner in her bedroom. She fixes up a wooden stand for it, made from stripped branches and tied together with the twine that Varric had so kindly given her. She’s just putting the finishing touches on it when someone knocks on her door, and she jumps in surprise. “Just a minute!”

Maybe it’s Carver. Poor Carver. He had a rather rough time of it last night. When he left, he had been unwilling to look her in the eyes. She had wanted to cup his face in her hands and tell him it was okay, that she didn’t think he was less of a friend to her, that she didn’t scorn him. She thought it was cruel of Marian to deny him a chance to go on the Deep Roads when it obviously meant so much to him. But then, Marian could be cruel.

She throws a sheet over the mirror hastily, knowing that no one would understand what it was, and might find its lack of a reflection unnerving. Then she opens the door.


	2. Chapter Two

Carver knows the history of the Gallows as well as anyone else in Kirkwall does, but it is only when he walks through those massive gates to speak to the Knight-Commander that he discovers how truly intimidating the building is. The statues themselves tower three times as high as an ordinary man. He had never quite noticed before the agonized expressions on their faces, their twisted, painful grimaces. He hopes very much that he isn’t going to feel like that before the interview was out.

A templar guides him to Meredith’s office, which is surprisingly unpretentious; just one more small room in a line of them to the side of the Gallows courtyard. “Good luck,” the templar says, with a hint of a smirk, and leaves, before Carver can ask anything more. His heart in his mouth, he knocks on the door.

“Enter,” says the cool, collected voice. He pushes the door open and steps inside.

Meredith is sitting with her back to him, scrawling something on a piece of paper. He waits for her to finish, feeling like a naughty boy summoned to meet a harsh schoolmistress. The silence stretches out, Carver shifting from side to side. In a minute, I’ll clear my throat, he promises himself. The next minute. Or the one after that.

Finally, Meredith turns around to face him. He notices that she’s in full templar regalia, even though it must be very uncomfortable to sit in heavy armor for that long. Why should that be?

“You’re a Hawke, then?” she says. Carver nods, bereft of speech for a moment, then finds his tongue all at once. “Yes…Carver Hawke. You’ve probably heard of me…my sister. You’ve probably heard of my sister.” He thrusts his hand out at her as though he was serving a dish of meat. She looks coolly at him and doesn’t move forwards to take it. Slowly, he lets his hand fall.

“I believe I have heard something of the sort, about a brother-sister team that worked with the Red Iron for a year. There was a Hawke on the register that Bartrand Tethras turned in for a Deep Roads expedition.”

“Yes, that’s my sister. I was supposed to be on that expedition, but…” _Get a grip, Carver_ , he says to himself sternly. _She doesn’t want to hear about that._ “I was in the Red Iron with her.”

Meredith turns back to the desk and shuffles through a pile of papers. She draws out one, and makes a great show of consulting it, although Carver suspects that she already knows what is on it and exactly what she’s going to say about it. “There was a disturbance about a templar recruit that was captured by blood mages, several weeks ago. The templar recruit’s name was Keran, and he was rescued by a Marian Hawke.” She peers over the top of the paper at him. “Your sister?”

Carver nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth.

“She told Knight-Captain Cullen that she was sure Keran was not possessed. The Knight-Captain believed her, and told me about this incident personally.” Meredith flattens the paper on her desk, spreading her fingers wide. “Can you tell me how she came to be so sure about this?”

Carver inwardly curses Marian and her Maker-damned interfering busybody ways. It would be bad, very bad, to begin his new life with a lie to his superior officer, but at the same time old habits die hard and he’s been protecting Marian’s secret all his life. “My sister…I wasn’t there at the time, but she told me, she always tells me about everything _afterwards,_ that she’d questioned the blood mages about what they’d done to Keran. They swore that Keran wasn’t possessed.”

The muscles in Meredith’s cheeks tighten. “And she believed them? That’s a foolish risk to take. Mages, blood mages in particular, always lie.”

“She, um, questioned them pretty severely,” Carver says, sketching quotation marks around the word _questioned._ He doesn’t particularly want to traduce Marian’s name, but on the other hand, it’s her own damned fault anyway.

“I see. Is that what you would have done in her place?” Meredith turns away slightly, as though to replace the paper, but he senses that she is listening very hard for his answer. It’s a test, he realizes. She wants to know how he would deal with blood mages.

“I would…” Suddenly, Merrill’s face swims before his eyes. He pushes it down brutally. “Blood mages deserve what they get.”

Her icy blue eyes find his. “I see.” Suddenly she pushes away from the desk and rises to stand eye-to-eye to him. Carver is pretty tall, but even though Meredith is a few inches shorter, he feels himself shrinking under her scrutiny. “Sit down, Hawke.”

He gasps a little, hearing her give him the name that has always been Marian’s. As he sinks onto the bench, the Knight-Commander walks to the office window. “I might as well tell you now that I’ve seen a hundred like you come here and ask for a position in the templars, and I’ve sent that hundred away. I’ve heard them all mouth those same words, _blood mages deserve whatever they get,_ and that’s a clue to me, you see. You said exactly what you thought I wanted to hear.”

Meredith turns back to face him, standing square with her arms crossed.

“I don’t believe for a second that you are here for any reason beyond wanting power over people. All these applicants stand in the same spot, mouth the same words, and they all just want me to admit them to the templars so they can push someone around. They don’t have a calling. You don’t have a calling.”

Carver’s mouth is open, but Meredith isn’t even looking at him. She’s gazing out the window, where, from the sounds, he can tell that there are mages practising in the courtyard.

“My advice to you, Hawke, is to go back to the Red Iron, and stay a mercenary. Clearly, you’ve done quite well out of it already. Your heart isn’t really in this. You don’t realize that templars are not here to bully mages, but to protect them and others from their magic. I don’t accept templars who think that mages deserve whatever they get. I accept templars who believe that it’s their job to prevent mages being put in scenarios where they will deserve what they get.”

He plaits his hands nervously together. That’s it, then. Meredith has told him that she won’t hire him, because he stupidly blurted out something that he didn’t even believe in. But it’s _not_ like what she says, he thinks furiously. It’s not, it’s not. He’s here because he genuinely believes that magic is dangerous, that mages like his sister running amok don’t do anybody any good. What he doesn’t believe is that bullying them and killing them will solve the problem. Bethany was the sweetest, most gentle girl that he ever knew. She could also kill people with nothing but her mind. He isn’t some thug off the streets looking to get his kicks by hurting others. Mages like Bethany, _people_ like Bethany, should be protected.

Meredith turns back and waves her hand. “I appreciate you coming here, Hawke. You have talent at fighting, that much is clear. Go and put it to use somewhere else.”

Carver stands up, still dazed. That’s it, then. She’s dismissed him, and he’s going to nod compliantly and walk out of the Gallows and back to a grimy hovel without any prospect of ever doing something that he wants for _himself._

The hell with that, he thinks.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice low but sure, digging his fingernails into his palm. “I said that because I thought that was what you wanted to hear. The truth is, I don’t believe that. I believe that magic is a danger, and mages are its victims. Mages don’t ask to be born with magic, any more than I asked to be born a little brother.” He mentally winces at that comparison. _Keep that out of this._ “Mages are people and they can be bad or good. It’s a templar’s job to save good people from that danger, whether they realize it or not.”

Meredith steeples her fingers and peers at him over them. “Is that all?”

“I…” He wants to be able to express himself to her, to say how badly he _needs_ this, how badly he wants this purpose in his life. “Yes. That’s all.”

“Hmm.” She opens a drawer and pulls out a slip of paper. “Fill this out, and report to the recruits master. He will show you where you’ll be sleeping, and send you to the people you need to see. Your training will begin tomorrow.”

Carver wants to punch the air and shout, but he restrains himself to a small grin. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”


	3. Chapter Three

The cell is cold and water keeps leaking in from somewhere. It would have been nice if there were some mice, because then at least she’d have company, but the cell, like the Gallows, is horribly barren. No fresh sunlight or greenery creeps in from a crack. Merrill lies curled up in the corner, as far away from the door as she possibly can be.

If she had only thought to grab her staff, before they knocked, she might yet be free. She might have fought her way through them, and ran from Kirkwall back to Sundermount. She would have run to Marethari like the little elvhen girl she used to be, and Marethari would have patted her head and made soothing, meaningless noises. They would have moved camp immediately, perhaps back to Ferelden. The risk of having one of their future Keepers imprisoned would have been too great; there simply aren’t enough elvhen with the gift.

Rationally, Merrill knows it’s nothing but a fantasy. The templars were all old and hardened, expecting a fight with a dangerous blood mage. They would have silenced her before she had gotten off a single spell. Her clan wouldn’t have even wanted her back. They knew about the mirror, and her bargain with the spirit. Maybe they would have marched her right back down the mountain and handed her to Meredith like a present.

She feels ashamed of herself. She hadn’t even offered any resistance. When the faceless templar had loomed over her and politely requested that she come with them, she had frozen up with fear. How arrogant she had been, to imagine that just because she was an elf and lived in the alienage, the templars would overlook her. When they reached the Gallows, the templars had locked her in a silencing cell, to “ensure that any magic she had performed would be nullified.” She thinks that they locked her in here to break her spirit.

The door rattles as someone inserts a key in the lock, then a templar steps through. The flood of bright light burns her eyes, and she scrambles up into a sitting position, hugging her knees tight.

“Merrill, am I right?”

She glances at him, eyes screwed up against the light. It might just be a trick of the light, but she imagines she sees compassion on his face.

“Yes,” she manages.

The templar kneels down next to her and removes his helmet. “I am Thrask.” He holds out his hand. Merrill pretends she doesn’t see it.

“I apologize. You were only supposed to be here overnight.” Thrask gently puts an arm around her shoulders and helps her rise. Merrill hasn’t had any food or water since they shut her in, and she staggers a bit. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the First Enchanter. We’ll get you some new robes and a staff.”

She pauses. “I can’t…can’t I keep my own robes?”

He looks uncomfortable. “Regulations. I’m sorry. We don’t know what magic you’ve performed on your robes.”

“Didn’t you just lock me in that silencing cell for two days?” she demands. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

They go up the staircase and into a wide, airy courtyard whose walls are punctuated with doors. Each door has a templar guarding it. Thrask leads her through one of these doors and down a long corridor. She tries to remember the route, but the Gallows is a maze, and Merrill has never had a particularly good memory for directions.

They end up in a large, circular room at the top of a squat tower. A grey-haired elf and a tall human woman are sorting through a stack of books next to one of the windows. Thrask clears his throat. “First Enchanter?”

The elf looks up. “Ah, Thrask. This is the mage?”

“Merrill,” she says crisply.

The elf smiles. “I’m Orsino. Thank you, Thrask.”

Merrill glances at Thrask, to see how he takes being dismissed as though he were a green recruit, but he merely nods equably and leaves the room. Orsino waits until the door is firmly closed behind him. “This tower is one of the few places that aren’t constantly filled with templars. If there’s anything you want to say freely, this is probably the best place to do it.”

She wonders what he means. “What’s going to happen to me now?”

Orsino glances towards the human woman. “This is Brinwen. She’ll get you new robes and a Circle staff.”

“Can’t I keep these?” Her voice is merely a thread.

“I’m sorry.” Orsino really _does_ look sorry. “They don’t want you with anything that could remind you of the outside.”

Brinwen leads Merrill to a cramped room in the tower where she will sleep. On the bright side, she thinks, it’s bigger than her bedroom in the alienage. The older mage waits outside while she changes. The Circle robe is scratchy, heavy wool, dyed a pale lavender. The accompanying shoes she throws out the window. She’s not that broken yet. Before she hands over her old robes, she yanks out a handful of the dyed-black halla fur and stuffs it under the pillow.

 

Over breakfast in the mess hall, Carver hears that Isabela has been looking for him.

“Do you know a pirate?” Paxley asks, spooning a mess of porridge into his mouth. At least half of it is absorbed by his splendid mustache. “Keran said that a pirate woman’s been running all over the Gallows looking for you. She even went to see Meredith.”

Carver imagines that confrontation. Meredith and Isabela are two of the strongest women he knows. It would have only been worse had it been Aveline.

“Anyway,” Paxley resumes, “if you want to see her, she’s been waiting near the shops every day, Keran said.”

“I’ll go see her.”

When Carver has finished breakfast, he dons his ceremonial armor and goes out to the public courtyard. He expects he knows what this is about – Isabela is probably going to lambast him for taking such a step without speaking to his family, especially Marian. Well, he isn’t going to ask his sister for permission to do something for himself.

Isabela is leaning against the wall, shooting sultry looks at passing templars. When she sees him, she pushes herself off the wall and strolls towards him. “There you are. Nice skirt. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Carver flushes. Maker damn her, Isabela always manages to make him feel as though he’s ten years old. “So I heard.”

“Mmm.” Isabela stops in front of him, giving him a long up-and-down look. “So. A templar recruit.”

“Yes,” he says shortly. He isn’t going to justify himself to her, and she wouldn’t understand anyway. She’s only ever selfish.

“Obviously you’re very busy now, singing chants and learning to oppress, but did you hear that Merrill’s missing?”

“Missing?” he says stupidly. His mind races. Did she go back to her clan? Marian didn’t take her to the Deep Roads, maybe she thinks that Marian doesn’t care enough about her to make her stay in Kirkwall. Maybe she heard about him, and – oh, Maker – hates him so much for his decision that she won’t ever see him again.

“That’s right.” Isabela has a very shrewd look in her eyes. Distantly, he wonders why. “For three days now.”

“Have you looked for her?”

Isabela looks at him with a sudden bright flash of anger in her eyes. He steps back a pace, intimidated. “No, Junior, I’ve been sitting around praying to the Maker. Of course I did. I asked around the alienage, and I had Aveline keep an eye out. And guess what?”

“Why are you dragging this out?” he asks, frustrated.

“She’s here. In the Gallows. Someone ratted her out, and your new buddies paid her a visit. I sure hope you really believe in that skirt.”

At Ostagar, a hurlock wielding a stout mace had slammed it into Carver’s breastplate with all its weight. Carver had been wearing heavy armor, but all the same, he had doubled over, winded. Then as now, he had gasped for breath, his whole body tingling with the adrenaline spike. He feels as though Isabela has just struck him with a similar blow.

“Here?” he eventually manages to say.

“Yeah. Here. As in locked up here.” Isabela jabs her finger in his face. “This what you wanted? You’re just fine with your friends and your sister getting thrown in jail cells for the way they were born? You’re okay with that? Think about that for a second, if you can think at all.”

He’s never heard such loathing in her voice. “Isabela, if I had known…”

“If you had known…what? It’s only okay to do it to people you don’t know?”

“It’s about what’s best for everyone!” he finally shouts at her. “They could all be mass murderers in a second!”

“There is no _what’s best for everyone,_ ” Isabela snaps. “We’re all different and we’re all looking out for ourselves. You’re only here because your sister left you behind. So don’t try to dress this up as anything more than you wanting to be a big boy.”

“You _never_ say that to me,” he snarls. “Never!”

In one swift motion, Isabela grabs him by his breastplate and swings him around. He slams into the wall so hard that his head rings. “You better damn well look out for her,” the pirate hisses into his face. “You better make sure no one lays a finger on her, or so help me I’ll rip you apart limb from limb. Got that?”

She releases him with a violent jerk that throws him sideways, forcing him to his knees. Isabela spits on the ground in front of him, and strides off, leaving him speechless.

 

Three days later, he finally sees her.

The recruits are kept in a separate area of the Gallows, away from the mages. They can’t be trusted around them yet: their abilities are not yet developed, and if a mage got it into his head to use magic, a recruit wouldn’t be able to silence him. Carver is glad that he doesn’t have to see the mages yet. He asked around casually, and heard that Merrill is in seclusion till she learns the rules of the Gallows (till she breaks down, he thinks), but every mage he sees has her face.

However, one day he’s sent up to the mages’ library to gather some texts on dispelling magic, and he sees her. The head librarian leads him to the section on templar magic, and he passes right by her before he even realizes she’s there. She looks as though she’s shrunk; the big, heavy lavender robes dwarf her. Her shoulders are slumping forwards, her nose almost touching the page. He spins around, not sure of what he’ll say, or what he even _can_ say.

_I’m sorry._

_I didn’t mean for this to happen._

_I promised Isabela – I won’t let anyone hurt you._

She would probably laugh at him for the last one. Maybe he can swing a sword around, but she can command the earth itself to turn against him.

_“Well, you seem good at it! I bet one day you’ll be the best sworder in Kirkwall!”_

She doesn’t look like she’ll say such cheery, grammatically-incorrect things again.

The head librarian, pontificating on something, turns around and notices that he’s not there. “Ah…Hawke?”

Merrill’s head bobs up lightning-quick. Her wide green eyes meet his, and widen even more. He winces as she takes in his armor; the sword-and-sun emblem bright on his chest. He opens his mouth and shuts it again.

She just nods, as though he had slapped her. The silence is unbearable. “Merrill…”

“Are you coming?” the head librarian asks, looking a bit uncertain.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.” Carver turns away from Merrill, who has already ducked her head.

“Did you…know her?” the librarian asks quietly, once they’re shielded by bookshelves.

“We…my sister and I…we met her once.” He’s determined that he won’t implicate Marian or Anders. The idea of having to meet his sister’s accusing eyes in this very library makes him want to throw up.

“Nice girl,” the librarian says absentmindedly as he browses the bookshelves. Too late he realizes what he’s said. “Of course…previously practised blood magic, clearly can’t be trusted…”

The hell with that, Carver thinks miserably. He’s only been a templar for a week, and he’s already sick of the terrified glances every mage shoots him, and the way they watch their words.

_You’re here to protect mages from the consequences of magic. Remember that._


	4. Chapter Four

Merrill has a new morning routine now.

There are no rules, exactly, on what the mages can do, as long as it’s not unsupervised magic. So she makes her own. Her window slit faces the sunrise, so she rises when the sun does. Even though the templars think it odd, she still refuses to wear their shoes, and they eventually accept it. Breakfast is a dull affair of burnt porridge, usually, but it’s still better than what she used to get in the alienage. She eats in the mages’ hall with other early risers like Orsino. She likes their morning conversations: Orsino was alienage-born, but is very curious about the Dalish, and especially their use of magic. Because of his interest, Merrill is soon demonstrating Keeper magic to him, though always under the watchful eye of a templar in case it goes too far. She never touches blood magic now; it was made very clear to her that if she ever used it again, she would be made Tranquil. Orsino told her that Meredith had originally wanted to make her Tranquil anyway, but he had persuaded her otherwise. She still shivers every time she thinks about it; how close she came to losing herself.

There are good things about the Circle, sometimes. Some of the mages shun her because of her blood magic, and she can understand that. She wouldn’t want to be associated with something that the templars hate either. But many of them are friendly towards her, and even seem to hold her in awe. She supposes it’s because she’s dealt with spirits, which so few of them have. The Kirkwall Circle doesn’t believe in allowing their mages to go into the Fade very much. The only time the Circle mages ever see the Fade is when the Harrowing occurs, or if they specialize in spirit healing. The stories she can tell of the Fade have many of the younger mages hanging on her words, and she can’t lie and say that she didn’t miss having friends.

The library is another good thing. The mages have put years and years of work into the library, and every so often they have to annex another storage room to keep the books that they’ve acquired. Orsino says that Meredith is suspicious of their library, that no templar likes their mages to have even a little bit of knowledge. Whether this is true or not, Merrill doesn’t know, and she doesn’t particularly care. For every good thing about the Circle, there are a dozen bad things, and she never forgets that this place is a prison.

The one thing that she always asks for, and that they always deny, is the chance to walk outside the Gallows for a little while. The Gallows is all paved marble and high walls. The only plants present are in the courtyards of the templar residences, and even those are small and stunted. Merrill misses the feeling of warm sunlight on her cheeks, wiggling her toes in long green grass. She misses the taste of sun-warmed fruits and water straight from the stream.

She’s reading late in the library one day, having just discovered a compendium on Dalish history (it’s very human-centric but they do get some things right) when she hears an armored step behind her and conjures a ball of lightning without stopping to think. The dreadful feeling of being silenced comes down on her, the waves of nausea and the blinding pain behind her eyes.

“Sorry,” a familiar voice says, and the nausea lifts. “It’s automatic now.”

She resolutely turns forwards and concentrates on her book. Maybe it’s childish, but she can’t help it.

“Merrill, please.” Carver walks around the table and draws out a chair opposite her. “Please, don’t do this.”

“What should I do?” she retorts, provoked into answering. “Would you like me to lick your boots instead? _Ser_?”

He glares back at her. “I’m not even knighted.”

The absurdity of the response makes her, against her will, giggle. His face lightens at once too. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

“Oh, a bit.” She closes the book. “So why are you here?”

“I can’t just…come and see you? We’re…we were friends.”

“ _You_ can do whatever you want,” she says, the words bitter in her mouth. He bites his lip. “I know. Merrill, listen. I had no idea. Isabela came to see me days later. If I had known…”

She rubs her eyes. “Stop.” He shuts up immediately. “I know you have a million excuses, and I don’t want to hear them.”

“They’re not excuses,” he rejoins. “They’re reasons. Look, I know you don’t agree with me…”

“Why would I agree with you? Your _reasons_ have me locked up here!”

“Maybe I don’t believe mages can be trusted with their freedom!” he shouts, exasperated.

She pales, feeling her eyes brim with tears. When she speaks again, her voice is steady, because for all the world she would not let him see how much those words hurt her. “You can believe what you want. But don’t come here and try to make nice when it’s clear that you want all mages gone. Magic isn’t safe, and it can’t be made safe no matter how many of us you lock up. Believe what you want, but you’ll never understand.”

He looks stricken. “I didn’t mean…”

“You meant it. Just go, Carver.”

Silently, he rises and walks around the table past her. He pauses just behind her. “I wanted to tell you that Marian is back. And…and I wanted to leave you this. It’s not much, but…” He reaches over her shoulder and puts a daisy in front of her. She gasps a little, the sight of something green and growing is overwhelming. The petals still have dew adhering to them. When she picks it up carefully, the stem leaves a smudge of dirt on her hands. She brings the dirt to her nose and sniffs. The scent is so powerful and so homey that she almost sobs.

She turns around to thank him, but he’s gone.

 

Carver knew as soon as he heard Marian was back in Kirkwall that she was going to come and have a little talk with him. To head off any untoward shouting scenes in the Gallows, he decides instead that he’ll take the fight to Gamlen’s house. Maker knows that nothing can make that place worse than it is already.

To his surprise, he finds that both Varric and Isabela are there. The lump that Isabela raised on his head has only just gone away, and he’s in no mood to get another one.

_Count your blessings. Anders isn’t here._

“Sweetheart,” Mother says tremulously as he walks in, outfitted in full templar armor. Marian walks out of the back room as he comes in the front door, and when they see each other, they stop dead. Her ice-blue eyes narrow at the sight of him. Unconsciously, he shifts to a fighting stance, feet a little more apart, knees slightly bent.

She comes at him like a charging bronto and slugs him hard right in the eye. For a mage, she’s always been strong, and he is knocked back into the door, slamming it shut behind him. Mother shrieks. “Marian, stop!”

Varric throws himself between them, pushing Marian back. “Hawke, cool it. Punching him senseless won’t fix anything.”

Isabela is busy glowering at him over Marian’s shoulder. If Varric hadn’t been here, Carver suspects that Isabela would have been right in there throwing punches with Marian.

“You fucking bastard,” his sister grits out. “You damn fucking _bastard._ ”

“Not the sort of thing you want to say in front of Mother,” Carver says recklessly, and Marian lunges at him again. Varric practically headbutts her. “Seriously, Hawke!”

“Fine,” she snarls, and steps back. Carver’s heart is pounding, but he composes his face. “I’m glad you got back safe,” he says, in as level a tone he can manage. “But I’ve got a new job now.”

“I suppose Merrill’s _safe_ too, is she?” Marian spits at him venomously. “Safely locked up in a cell by your new buddies?”

“She’s fine,” he says neutrally. “I just saw her yesterday.”

_She shouted at me and threw me out._

“How could you do this? To me? Damn it, Carver, we’re supposed to be family!”

“It’s all about you, isn’t it?” he shouts, temper finally overruling better sense. “It’s all about The Great Marian, and I should always be living in your shadow? I should always be thinking, oh, what if my sister doesn’t want me to do this, oh, what if this is something the special magey won’t like?”

“And you’re not selfish? You didn’t pick the _worst_ job in Kirkwall for someone with an apostate for a sister? Two apostate sisters? And an apostate father? You don’t think you’re spitting on their names? You don’t think Bethany and Father…”

“Don’t you dare!” Carver bellows, and steps forwards. “You don’t know what they would have wanted!”

Marian shouts something incoherent, and raises a hand. Carver feels the buzz of magic in the room and starts to silence her before he even thinks about it. Everyone in the room can feel the hum of magic from both him and her. Isabela touches her daggers, while Varric tenses, ready to step in again.

Marian’s eyes meet Carver’s, and the depth of betrayal in them hurts him. She releases the magic and puts her hands up. “So, what are you going to do? Drag me in?”

Carver clenches his fists so hard that his fingernails break the skin of his palm. “No. I’m going to leave before we start throwing things. I know you hate me for this, but at least be glad I’ve got someplace that isn’t trailing behind you.”

He turns and marches back outside. In all the time he was there, he hadn’t stepped more than three paces from the door.


	5. Chapter Five

Eventually, Merrill can look at Carver without feeling burning anger in the pit of her stomach. They can talk more naturally in the snatched moments that they can find, between his training and her work. Orsino finds that young elvhen children from the alienage respond better to being taught by an elf than by a human. Merrill doesn’t mind children, and there are never enough elven mages to teach them. Perfect fit.

The endless hours of being frozen by frost spells and left tingling for ages by lightning spells pay off for Carver. He learns to silence groups of mages, to talk down frightened apostate children. He’s sensible, and careful. Meredith trusts him to do what is necessary, Thrask trusts him to not bully or abuse mages. He can feel pride in his work.

One evening, Gamlen comes to the Gallows drunk. Carver doesn’t like it, but he invites Gamlen in to his quarters to talk. It turns out that Marian has bought the old Amell estate, and moved herself and Leandra in. “Bitch never offered to take me in,” Gamlen says, foulmouthed with drink. “Doin’ better than you are though. You aren’t even a _ser_ yet.” He waves the bottle around. “Heh. _Ser_. Can I lick your boots, _ser_ , can I kiss your arse, _ser_. Poncy Orlesian bollocks, if you ask me.”

“Nobody did.” Carver throws him out on his drunken arse, with the help of Paxley. He confiscates his whiskey bottle too, and drinks it all up in the same night to avoid thinking of Marian, sitting pretty in her mansion. She provided for Mother, he didn’t. She’s successful, while he’s still banging on wooden mannequins and silencing already drugged mages. The next morning, he has such a terrible hangover that he disgraces himself in the training court and is banned from weapons for three days. So it goes.

Marethari sends Merrill a message that is inevitably confiscated, and goes through an elaborate screening process for months on end. Carver gets fed up and steals it from a stack of papers that might as well be labeled ‘Will Never Be Touched Again’. He passes it to her one evening in the library, and Merrill reads it hungrily in the privacy of her little room. _We will not forget you, lethallan. If you can escape, come back to the clan, we will wait for you as long as we can. Kirkwall is no place for a Dalish. If you cannot escape, remember that I love you. – Marethari._

Merrill cries over it all night. In the morning, before dawn, she folds it carefully, preserves it with a little spell, and hides it deep in a crevice behind her cupboard. Late at night, in the library again, Carver comes to check on her. She has her face buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking, and he gently pats her arm as though she’s made of spun sugar. It’s a long time before Merrill can summon the strength of mind to raise her head and wipe away the tears. “Thank you,” she says, hoarsely, her throat raw. For passing her the letter, for comforting her.

“Anything for you,” he says, and they both know that he means it.

Carver and the other trainees are allowed out more and more often as their training progresses and it becomes more likely that they won’t embarrass the Order in public. They end up at the Hanged Man one night, and Carver discovers that Isabela is in. After a few drinks, Isabela mentions something derisive about the skirts on a templar’s uniform, and Ruvena, sensitive as always to threats to the Order’s dignity and quite drunk, throws a punch. Carver could have told her that Isabela had been dodging punches since before she was born, but Ruvena doesn’t know that and as Isabela predictably ducks the momentum of her punch carries her into another customer. That customer takes offense to being punched, and soon enough a boisterous fight develops. Isabela, delighted, manages to blow it up to such proportions that it spills out into the street, and by the time it’s done, the entire city block the Hanged Man is on is enveloped. Carver only hears about that part later, as he and the other trainees had left as soon as it escalated. Surprisingly, he hears that Isabela has taken all the blame for it, and an exasperated Aveline has thrown her in jail for a week or two to cool off.

When he goes to visit her, she brushes him off. “I couldn’t have you lot being thrown out of the templars. Who would look after Merrill? Besides, if I wanted to be out of here I could pick that lousy lock in a second.”

“I appreciate it,” he says. She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s for Merrill.”

Meredith instigates a new rule: all mages must watch a mage being made Tranquil. Previously, the ritual was conducted in a cell, with only the templars that were performing it and the hapless mage. The Knight-Commander says it makes for a better example when the mages have to see one of their own being made Tranquil. She says it encourages them to toe the line. One of the first mages turned Tranquil under the new regime is barely more than a child, one that Merrill mentors. The elvhen boy cut himself while harvesting herbs in the garden, and a templar guarding the gardens claimed he saw the boy drawing magic from the cut. Merrill protests that he was just trying to heal the cut, until Orsino takes her aside and reminds her that if she’s caught defending a blood mage, the templars will assume she never really gave up blood magic. Throughout the ritual, Merrill has her eyes tight shut, praying in mumbled fragments to the Creators that this isn’t really happening. She starts to have nightmares.

Carver notices the dark shadows underneath Merrill’s eyes, and the weight that starts to melt from her bones. He would do anything to see her happy. When he gets clearance from Thrask, he goes out to the countryside one morning in search of a rosebush. He needs something that will grow, something that will brighten her room and remind her of the outside world. 

“Usually we don’t allow plants in their rooms,” Thrask had said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his desk.

“Why not?” Carver asked, curious.

Thrask met his eyes without evasion. “It reminds them of the outside world.”

Digging in the dirt, Carver thinks that’s a vile reason to deprive someone of color and life.

After dinner that night, Carver brings the potted rosebush up to her room. She isn’t there yet: probably in the library. Too late, he realizes that the stupid window doesn’t actually have a shelf. He improvises by dragging the cupboard over to the window. Sooner or later, he’ll build her a shelf. They’re not that difficult to make; a few boards and nails and a hammer and you’re done, but they don’t like to provide the mages with anything that could be used as a weapon.

“Are you redecorating my room?”

He spins around, catches his foot on the bed and nearly falls. She squeaks. “Oh! Careful.”

Carver manages to haul himself (and a semblance of dignity) back up. “Sorry, I know this probably looks weird. I just thought I’d bring by this?”

She catches her breath, brushing past him to sniff at the roses. “Oh. Oh, Carver, thank you.”

“You’ve been…having a rough time of it.” Carver mentally kicks himself. She smiles, sad and a bit sweet. “I really appreciate this. Is this…is it allowed?”

“I asked Thrask if I could do it. He said it should be fine. Anyone bothers you about it, just let me know.”

She giggles. He frowns slightly. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Oh…it just sounded very protective.”

It did, he realizes. Now he sounds like some depraved predator. “I just meant…”

“Carver,” she says, putting a hand on his arm. “I know what you meant.”

They both fall silent, looking at the flower. It’s a bit battered from its trip, but Carver reckons it’ll survive. “I’ll just…go, then,” he mumbles. “Curfew, and all that.”

“All right,” she says, her voice small. He turns to go. “Carver?”

“Yes?”

“Really, I do appreciate it.” She flushes a bit pink. “It was very thoughtful of you.”

He walks out with a big grin on his face.

 

Later, when Merrill is sifting through the soil to see if she needs to water it yet, her fingers come across something crackly and stiff. Curious, she draws it out. It is a tiny scrap of paper, rolled up tightly. She flattens it out. _Merrill, this is how I’ll talk to you if we’ve got something to say that can’t be said in front of templars. Put your note in the soil and I’ll check for it during evening inspection. Check when you come back to your room at night. Destroy this._

She presses the note to her lips, eyes shut tight against tears.


	6. Chapter Six

Carver is returning to the barracks after a long day of being beaten soundly in the training rooms by Meredith when one of the messenger boys slips him a note from Marian. He reads it over twice, slowly, as he strips off his armor and flexes his sore shoulders. She’s invited him to dinner.

He’s been at the Gallows for a couple of years, and Marian hasn’t contacted him once. She resolutely stays away from the Gallows; Merrill says that although she’s received a few notes from her, Marian hasn’t visited her either. Uncle Gamlen visits every once in a while, usually hungover or tipsy, and Mother makes a point of visiting once a week. He tells himself that he doesn’t care what Marian does, but damn her, her coldness _does_ hurt him.

He seeks permission from Thrask to leave for the night, and when it’s granted, he suits up in the finest templar clothes he can lay hands on and walks to Hightown. The old Amell mansion is grand without being ostentatious. Still, he’s glad he doesn’t live here. If he did, he would be the very thing he despises: someone entranced with their own self-importance, unwilling to find purpose.

At the door, Mother meets him with a big grin. “Carver! Sweetheart!” She grabs him and stifles him in a motherly hug.

“Hello, Mother,” he says, gently untangling himself. She clasps her hands. “Oh, you look so handsome in your templar clothes.”

“Thanks,” he mutters. “Mother, why did Marian ask me to dinner?”

“Oh, she wants to see you!” Mother’s smile is stretched too wide and doesn’t meet her eyes. Her pleased expression is a mask; at any second it could shatter like glass.

“Really.” He doesn’t want to sound like a prick, but Marian could always do this to him. Even when she’s not around, she reduces him to an angry child again.

“Um…I know she has something she wants to show you. I think. But really, sweetheart, she does want to see you. We’re all family, and we’ve all been through a lot together.”

“Carver.”

He spins around to see Marian leaning against an elegantly carved doorframe. The past year has not been kind to her; there are cobwebby lines at the corners of her eyes, and a reddish scar across the bridge of her nose. He notices ironically that instead of the full skirts and puffed sleeves that most Kirkwall nobles favor, she’s wearing crimson mage robes intricately worked with gold thread. _Very funny, Sister._

“Marian,” he says, equally brusque. Two can play at her stupid game.

Mother’s pleasant smile has frozen up. “Marian darling, I thought you were going to take those off.”

“I figured I might as well make Carver feel at home,” she says icily. She makes a little bow. “If you’ll come through this way, dinner is ready.”

As Carver enters the dining room, he notices the merchant dwarf, Bodahn, is standing near a short staircase that no doubt leads down to the kitchen. “What’s Bodahn doing here?” he asks as they sit down.

Mother gets in first. “Marian saved Sandal down in the Deep Roads. The poor boy had wandered off. She brought him back, and Bodahn swore he’d repay her. Of course, she wouldn’t accept his money, so he offered to serve her here.”

“Saving the day again, then.”

“Shut it, Carver.” The soup arrives, and Marian rips a slice of bread in half with particular venom.

“So why’d you ask me here, if not for the pleasure of my company?” he asks, and enjoys watching the red creep up her cheeks.

“For Merrill.”

He’d envisioned a lot of scenarios, but not that particular one. “What? Why don’t you just go and see her, then?”

“Because it isn’t that I want to go and see her.” Marian takes a large bite of bread and speaks around it. “Varric has been keeping her house for her. But it’s been a year, he’s giving up and selling the place. We went to clean it out last week.”

“You want to return her stuff to her?” Carver is incredulous. “You have to know that the Order won’t let her have anything back.”

“Can’t you shut your mouth and listen? I know that. But we found something unusual. It’s a big mirror, broken, but it won’t reflect anything. She had pieced it together on a big stand in her bedroom, so it obviously meant something to her. And it’s obviously magical, Anders thinks so and I do too. I brought it back here. I want you to tell her about it and ask her what we should do with it.”

The first thing Carver is inclined to say is _so much for family love_ but he knows that will hurt Mother too much. So instead he says “What do you imagine she’ll be able to do with it?”

“Damned if I know, but it’s spooky. If there’s some way to safely destroy it, I hope she can tell me.”

“I’m surprised you’d entrust something magic to a templar.”

“I don’t want to. But they search you before you go to visit a mage. Or if they think you’re too much of a risk, they don’t let you visit at all. I’m sure you know all that already, and you’re proud of it.”

“Can’t you give it a rest?” he says irritably. “I know you don’t approve of me being a templar, but I never asked you to. Can’t you just be all right with the fact that I have a real job now?”

“Yeah, a job torturing people for being born,” she growls at him. Carver slams his fist down on the table, causing his soup to splash. “A job keeping people _safe_! I don’t blame mages for being born! I never blamed you. But magic isn’t safe. I have a responsibility protecting others from mages and mages from themselves.”

“Sure, and you protect them by locking them up in tiny cells and abusing them.” Marian stands up, glowering at him. “It’s the templars that make magic dangerous. You push them to blood magic and then you accuse them of it! It’s your system that makes no sense.”

“If you just accepted…” Carver begins hotly, but Mother suddenly stands up, overturning her own soup bowl. “That’s enough! You will not fight over the family table in our ancestral home! Carver, your father fought to keep your sisters free of the Circle. You will not insult his memory like this. Marian, your brother deserves his own way. You will not insult his choices. Now both of you, sit down.”

Her eyes still blazing, Marian slowly sinks down. Carver realizes that he’s clenching his fists, and breathes out, forcing himself to relax. Bodahn steps in, his expression professionally impassive, and removes the soup bowls. None of them had eaten a thing.

 

After dinner, Marian leads him upstairs to her room, where the mirror is crammed into a closet. She takes out a smaller shard and hands it to him. Carver turns it over in his hands; it doesn’t reflect a thing, but seems to absorb all light instead, so the surface is dark and dull.

“See? Can you tell her about this?” Marian asks, her voice carefully neutral. “And then tell us what she says.”

“I’ll pass it on.” Carver is equally expressionless. Marian sighs, her shoulders slumping forwards. “Look, Carver. You know why I can’t approve of what you do. But you’re my brother. If you’re ever in trouble, I’ll be there.”

Carver wants to laugh in her face. He wants to scream. He wants to hug her.

“I needed you before. You weren’t there.”

Marian looks down. Carver thrusts the mirror shard back into the closet, and leaves before they can say another word to each other.


	7. Chapter Seven

That evening, Merrill is late getting back, and the stars are already brightly shining outside her window when she finds the rolled-up note in the potted rose. _Meet me in the library tomorrow night, section on Orlesian history. It’s the quietest._

Lying in bed, Merrill worries about being in the library too late. Curfew, which was rarely enforced with any strictness before, has become a sticking point these past few months. Last night, Brinwen was late getting back to her room. The whipping post is in the courtyard below Merrill’s window. She had buried her face in the pillow, but she couldn’t close her ears to Brinwen’s cries of agony or close her nose to the sharp, coppery scent of blood.

 

In the library next night, Merrill pretends to read a long and boring book about seventh-age Orlesian history until Carver shows up. He looks furtive, though being encased in full plate makes it difficult for him to be unobtrusive. 

“Merrill, I have something I need to tell you. I was at Marian’s the other night, and she needs your advice on something.”

“What?”

“It’s a mirror. They found it in your house when they were cleaning it out, Varric’s selling the place for you. Marian has it in her house, and she wants to know what to do with it.”

Merrill’s breath catches in her chest. “She does? Oh, Carver. I thought I’d lost it, they day they took me.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“It’s an eluvian. They’re ancient artifacts of Arlathan. My…my clan found it in the forest one day. I was trying to fix it.”

“What does it do?” Carver slides into the seat opposite her.

“The ancient elves used it to communicate with each other. It could show you…” Merrill pauses. It could show her the ancient glory of Arlathan, pearly towers and golden-leaved trees. It could show her Tamlen, and Mahariel. It could show her a time when her clan accepted her and valued her.

“It could show you anything,” she whispers finally.

“How come you can’t fix it, then?”

Merrill’s shoulders drop. “I’ve asked myself that so many times. I’ve tried all the magic I know. Blood magic, old Keeper magic. It never responded.”

“ _This_ was what you made a deal with a demon for?” he asks incredulously. “This old mirror?”

She’s so outraged that she squeaks when she tries to talk. “Old mirror? It’s a priceless relic of our people! It’s one of the only things we have left!”

“Sorry!” He holds up his hands. “But I don’t get it. You gave up your clan and everything, made a deal with a demon, to fix this mirror? I mean, I know that it has a lot of meaning to you, but…”

“No! No, you don’t know. You think it’s some – some _souvenir_ from Arlathan or something? Carver…” She leans over and raps her knuckles against his breastplate. “Look at this! The symbol on this, it’s your history! You never lost it. You humans still have your culture. We Dalish were thrown down by the humans, and lost everything! People spit on us when we walk by, and we only have a handful of words left to talk to each other in a tongue that isn’t shemlen!”

She leans on the table, pushing her palms down flat as if she could break it with the force of her anger. He wouldn’t ever understand. A shemlen, like all the others, everyone who thought that the Dalish were simple fools to cling on to their dead traditions.

“Merrill, please,” Carver says, standing up. She glares up at him, wishing he would leave her alone. “You can’t fix it here. They’ll know. Blood magic – it’s not something they’ll overlook twice. You have to give it up.”

“Carver, if you make me give it up, you make me give up my soul. I can’t give up who I am. Your friends brought me in here, but I’m not broken. Not yet.”

He grabs her wrist, pulling her closer. “Don’t say that,” he hisses into her face. “I would never, ever have let them bring you here if I had known. They’re not my friends for that.”

She blazes back at him unafraid. “Fine words, but I’m still here.”

He drops her wrist, and at that, all the fight seems to go out of his body. He droops down, his shoulders slack. “So what do you want to do?”

“Bring it here.”

Carver’s head bobs up. “That’s impossible.”

“No, why? They never check the templars when they come back from the city. I’ve seen it.”

“All right, say I do. You can’t keep it in your room. They’d be bound to find it.”

“I know that. Orsino says that there are caverns and secret passageways below the Gallows. I could store it there…”

Carver cuts over her. “You can’t escape!”

She jerks her head. “I wasn’t talking about that!”

In two steps he’s looming over her. He grabs her shoulders. “I’m serious, don’t try. They have your phylactery, they can trace you. They hunt runaways down in a day.”

She shudders, in a flash recalling the last runaway. He hadn’t come back quietly. A templar was killed in the struggle, and he was deemed too dangerous to keep his powers. Only yesterday, Merrill had been to the storeroom and gathered up some potion ingredients under his watchful, empty eyes.

“I won’t try to escape.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she wishes she could take them back. She realizes that she’s been able to live through the last few years precisely because she hopes she can escape, because in the hazy moments between waking and sleeping she imagines wild escape plots. She’s only kept her sanity because she believed, deep down somewhere, that she would wiggle her toes in the grass again. But now Carver, poor dear Carver, has his hands on her shoulders and concern in his eyes, and she knows she will stay here till she dies. She can’t help it. No one should give in to despair, but she sinks down to her knees and buries her face in her hands. “Oh, Creators.”

Carver kneels down beside her. “Merrill?”

“Please,” she hiccups. “Please, I want the eluvian.”

He puts his hands around hers, rubbing her thin, cold fingers. “I’ll get it for you. I promise you.”

 

Carver keeps his promise. The next day, he makes an excuse and goes to visit Marian’s mansion. Too late, he discovers that Marian is of course never home during the day.

“Too busy hobnobbing with the rich idiots?” he asks Mother.

“She said something about the Wounded Coast,” Mother offers helpfully. “That awful Qunari leader asked to see her before. Maybe it’s something that he wanted her to do.”

“Why should she be running errands for Qunari?” he asks, alert.

“Oh I don’t know, darling. You know, she really does try to help this city out. I know Meredith doesn’t think very highly of her, but she’s doing some good.”

Carver bites back a retort, which is _Knight-Commander Meredith doesn’t like her very much because she’s given up hiding her magic and everyone in the Gallows is suspicious already_ and _it’s always Marian, she never thinks about how hard it is for me to have a mage for a sister when I’m a templar_ , and instead agrees to go shopping with Mother out of pity. By the time Marian is back, curfew is long past and Carver is very annoyed. What’s worse, she brings Anders with her.

“Merrill wants the mirror,” he says bluntly, trying to head off any pithy remarks from Anders, which he can see the mage is already dying to spit out.

“And you’re…what? Going to smuggle it in?” Marian strips off a gauntlet splattered in blood and…chunks…of something.

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Well, no skin off my nose. Come upstairs.”

To Carver’s surprise, Anders follows them up. “So what, one apostate in the house wasn’t enough? You need a whole collection?”

“Her house is really a treasure trove for you templars,” Anders remarks. “So, how does the helmet feel? Enjoy bossing mages around? I’m sure Merrill really loves that.”

Carver could have taken any other insult, but bringing Merrill into it was, as far as he was considered, crossing the line. “Oh, because you cared about her so much before this. You called her stupid, I remember. You never wanted to associate with her.”

“That’s because she was using blood magic! Doesn’t mean I think she deserved to be locked up by you lot.”

“I had _nothing_ to do with that!”

Marian had opened the closet door, but now she slams it shut. “Will you both shut up!”

Carver and Anders are shocked into compliance. She sighs. “That’s better. Right, here you go. I don’t know how you think you can smuggle mirror shards that big, but that’s your problem. I just want it out of my house.”

Carver reaches out and touches the surface of the mirror. It’s odd to see nothing, not even the haziest reflection. “What…what do you think this thing will do?”

Marian glances at Anders. He conjures up a bright white light at the tip of each finger and passes it over the mirror. Marian makes a questioning noise at the back of her throat.

“I don’t know.” The mage shrugs. “I can sense traces of blood magic, but I think that was Merrill. Whatever made this mirror used older magic than the Circle knows. That Dalish Keeper – Marethari – she might know more, but you’d think if she had, Merrill wouldn’t have turned to blood magic.”

_Whatever_ made this mirror. Not whoever. Carver shivers.

“Still want it?” Marian is poised to close the closet again.

“No,” he says with conviction. “But she does.”

It ends up taking many trips back and forth to the Gallows to smuggle all of the mirror in. The two large shards are broken up into smaller pieces with Merrill’s permission – “You can hardly break it worse than it already is” – and smuggled in one by one under Carver’s templar breastplate. Early in the mornings, when guard duty is light and all the guards are exhausted anyway, he helps her move it down to the dank cellars under the Gallows. The room she picks is musty and cobwebby, and requires an extraordinary amount of navigation to reach (which is surprising to him considering how often she got lost in Kirkwall) but it’s as safe as either of them can make it.

He doesn’t know exactly when she slips off to try and fix the mirror. She’s very subtle about it; none of the templars seem to notice, Orsino doesn’t notice, but he only notices after she’s gone. He’ll walk into a room of the library, expecting to see her green eyes widen and chin lift at the sight of him – but she won’t be there. Then later, she’ll reappear, teaching the young elvhen children or eating an overcooked meal in the dining hall, looking so innocent that no one would ever guess she had a secret. It makes him think of all the nights spent in the Hanged Man, with Merrill comfortably in the role of wide-eyed ingénue at their games of Wicked Grace, losing every hand she was dealt. Then he would walk her home and she would gaze up at the stars and say something like “Do you suppose there really is a story about Bianca, or does Varric just like the suspense?” and surprise him all over again.

So it goes, until the day that Meredith calls him in to her office, and in her usual calm way, standing square at her office window with her hands clasped behind her, tells him that it’s time to become a full Knight Templar.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for substance abuse in this chapter.

The recruits’ dormitory is alive with noise and laughter that night, and for once, the older templars ignore it. Carver’s comrades slap his back and press bottles of wine on him and shout for more. He’s pushed and pulled around with smiling faces and loud congratulations on every side, until his head is spinning but he is drunk off the wine and the excitement of finally, finally being the first in the room. More than one of the female templar recruits kiss him, and in their bright eyes gazing after him as he pulls away, he reads their adoration. It doesn’t matter that it’s all counterfeit, only happening because of the haze of excitement and alcohol in the room and the fact that he’s the latest recruit to be promoted. For once, people want him.

“Hold up, hold up, everyone!” The loud voice cuts through the babble, and Carver turns to see Hugh, one of the recruits that he went through training with, coming towards him. He carries a small, roughly carved bowl that emits a faint, pale glow. As he passes other recruits, they make noises of appreciation and eagerness.

“They’ll be giving you this tomorrow, but why not have a little here tonight to celebrate your achievement?” Hugh holds out the bowl, and Carver looks down. A tiny amount of lyrium dust – little more than a tablespoon – is sitting in the bottom of the bowl. As Hugh’s hands shake slightly, the lyrium catches the light and reflects it back in a million diamond fragments. If Carver sniffs hard, he can catch its scent: mint and violets and ice.

He remembers Father, talking to Bethany and Marian as he hung around the doorway. “Too much lyrium is a bad thing, girls. Only drink lyrium potions if you absolutely have to; if you’re real down on your mana and you need more now. I’ve seen templars driven mad by lust for lyrium. Old men with their hands shaking, who can’t do anything without lyrium. I don’t want to frighten you, but this is very important to remember.”

He glances up at Hugh. The recruit’s face is eager, happy; but glazed. Hugh is known as the go-to for illegal substances in the Gallows. If you’ve a hankering for aqua magus, or aqua lucidius, you go and see Hugh. For as long as Carver’s been here, Hugh has been supplying the lyrium for these initiations. But Carver suspects that while Hugh doesn’t touch any of the illegal alcohols, he’s been using the lyrium for a long time. He has the slightly bluish tinge to the whites of his eyes, and his hands shake; just a little, but it’s enough to notice.

“Go on, Carver!” He doesn’t see who says it, but it’s soon taken up by everyone. “Come on! Give it a try!”

_What would Bethany think? What would Father? What would Marian…_

She wouldn’t care. Carver dips a finger, sticky with alcohol, into the bowl and comes up with a thin coating of lyrium dust. He licks it off, and it tastes just as it smells, sharp and sweet.

“Let it dissolve on your tongue for a second.” Hugh smiles as he puts the bowl to one side, but Carver’s sharp eyes notice Hugh dipping his own finger in momentarily.

The dust dissolves quickly, and Carver smacks his lips, not feeling any grains on his tongue. It takes a moment, but soon a pleasant buzz fills all his limbs. His mind feels hazy and light, but happy. He wants to giggle for no reason whatsoever. Life here is good; he should be enjoying it more! He’s worked hard for this, all those practise swords dealing real blows, and zaps of electricity teaching him how to Silence the hard way. Damn it, he’s finally where he wants to be!

The party stretches late into the night, and Hugh keeps Carver well-supplied with the lyrium. As soon as Carver’s initial buzz fades, Hugh offers the bowl again. It is the wee hours of the morning before the older templars finally get fed up and come in (Hugh hides the bowl deftly under a trailing bedsheet) and tells the lot of them that they had better get to bed before they’re all thrown out for disgracing the Order.

Carver can’t sleep, though. The lyrium hums through his veins, keeping him awake. He imagines Merrill, sleeping many floors above him in the mages’ tower. She hasn’t heard the good news; he never went and told her. Maybe he’ll go now. He knows the guard schedule for the entire night and therefore how to slip past them. He slips out of bed, pulls on a shirt, and creeps out of the room with exaggerated caution. As he sneaks past the guards, who are all walking down the opposite corridor, or patrolling another room right at the moment he moves, he wants to laugh at them. Some security! But a small, sane part of his brain tells him that he really doesn’t want to do that right now.

Merrill’s door is unlocked, as all the mages’ rooms are; at any moment the templars must be allowed to come in. He tests it anyway, then slips into her room, closing the door quietly behind him. She looks so small, curled up in bed with her knees almost touching her chest. The air is perfumed with the scent of her; she smells faintly of grass and wildflowers and – he inhales deeply – lyrium. Lyrium – he’s coming down from his high and wants more straightaway. He reaches out and shakes her shoulder. “Merrill?” She whips over with lightning speed, her eyes still groggy with sleep, but she flings her hands out and slams force magic straight into his chest, throwing him backwards so hard that he hits his head on the stone wall. It knocks all the rest of the lyrium haze out of him pretty quickly.

“Creators, I – _Carver_? What are you doing in my room?”

He suddenly realizes how terrible this looks to her. _Maker, what an idiot you are_. If he could have turned around and walked straight back out, he would have.

“I…oh shit,” he mumbles. Words are hard to form; his tongue feels thick and fuzzy in his mouth.

“Wait,” she says, her voice sounding strange. “Come here. Carver?”

He staggers towards her, knocking his shins against her bed and falling to his knees beside it. She sits up, her blankets falling off her. _Don’t look_ , he chants to himself. _You already look like an incompetent predator. Don’t look._

She takes his face in her hands gently, tilting him towards the moonlight. “Have you been taking lyrium?”

“How’d you know?” he slurs. She frowns at him. “Your eyes. They have the lyrium glint. And you can’t talk straight.”

He groans, pitching forwards to sprawl half-on, half-off her bed. Merrill slides her hands under his shoulders and heaves him up again. “Why would you do something like that? Don’t you know how dangerous it is?”

He wants to retort with something witty about how ironic it is that a blood mage with a dark magic mirror under the Gallows is lecturing him on safety, but instead he just shakes his head. “M’initiation. For my initia…ini…for that. M’be a ser tomorrow.”

She looks skeptical. “I hope Meredith doesn’t mind that you won’t be able to walk straight.”

“Doesa’matter.” He waves his hand around. “Doesn’t matter. They got me takin’ lyrium f’th’rest of m’life. Lyrium, everday. I’ll be addicted to it.”

They’re both silent for a while, him facedown in her bed and her curled over his shoulders. To his surprise, the shoulders of his shirt start to grow damp, and then wet. He glances up. “Whassit?”

Merrill’s eyes are oddly bright in the moonlight, distorted by tears. “Carver, I’m so sorry.”


	9. Chapter Nine

The knighthood ceremony passes in a blur for Carver, whose head is still fuzzy from the lyrium and alcohol of the night before. His vows are made to the Maker and Andraste, kneeling on a mosaic of the templar’s sun-and-sword symbol. By the time Meredith leads him outside and sets a sword of the Order in his hands, he is wretched and tired and just wants to go back to bed.

Unfortunately, the Knight-Commander calls him in to her office, so Carver drinks down a pint of water to ease the throbbing behind his eyes, and dutifully reports to her. The window shades are closed, and Meredith gestures to a seat across the desk from her. “Sit down.”

He nods, hoping that he doesn’t look as terrible as he feels. Her icy eyes follow every movement. “I imagine you and the other recruits held a party last night, judging by the look of you.”

_I really do look that terrible._

“Yes, Knight-Commander. I’m ready for duty though.” Internally he winces at the bald lie.

“Hmm. I didn’t call you in here to give you an assignment. I called you in here because you ought to know that instead of giving you a knighthood, I should have stripped you of your rank and given you a dishonorable discharge.”

Carver’s mind races ahead of her. The lyrium – she’s found out about the lyrium – no, can’t be. If she had, Hugh would be in here now right alongside him – and half the current knights. It’s the mirror – Maker, Merrill’s in danger. Got to warn her –

“Something you wish to say, Ser Hawke?”

“I…why?”

She laughs. Her laugh is short and sharp, and rarely heard. “Straight to the point, at least. It’s that sister of yours. I’m surprised I didn’t find out sooner that she is a mage. You hid her well.”

Carver can’t help it; he groans, and sinks his head in his hands. That’s it for the lot of them. Anders won’t be able to keep running his clinic, Bodahn will have to find a new patron. It’ll kill Mother – she was only just starting to feel like an Amell again.

Meredith steeples her fingers, and gazes at Carver over them. “What I find interesting in all this is that you came here of your own free will. You’ve been an excellent templar, you haven’t abused a mage as far as I know, and you’ve upheld the tenets of the Order admirably. Yet you’ve kept your sister’s secret for this long and I’ve no reason to suspect that would have ever changed.”

He waits, but it becomes clear she wants him to speak. “I’ve been hiding her my whole life…” he says weakly. “It’s just become…habit.”

He wants to say more: that he hates his sister for being so Maker-damned superior and cold, just as much as he loves her for her strength and conviction. That habit isn’t just about little superstitious rituals; it’s about staying silent for so long that when you finally _can_ break your silence, nothing comes out of your mouth when you open it. Now it’s habit to Silence a rogue mage in the streets and drag him in while never shooting a glance at Marian’s mansion looming overhead.

Meredith nods. “I could have thrown you out for hiding an apostate. I didn’t though, because once I was a girl with an apostate sister. Her name was Amelia, and she was so fragile, so gentle. My parents thought she wouldn’t survive in the Circle. So they hid her, and I lied about her for so long that I started to believe it.”

Carver hardly dares to breathe. Meredith prizes cool professionalism and the distinction of rank. For her to start sharing something like this is rather as though Merrill had just thrown out the eluvian.

“She was afraid of her magic, and wanted nothing to do with it. She was not trained, or educated on the dangers. Neither were we. So when she was possessed by a demon, none of us knew what to do.” Meredith’s voice hoarsens. “The abomination killed my entire family, and seventy villagers before the templars could bring her down.”

“I’m sorry,” Carver blurts out. “I’m so sorry.” He means it to sound sympathetic, but it comes out as more of an apology.

“I joined the templars the next day.” The Knight-Commander gets up and walks to the window, cracking the shades open. Sunlight spills over her, gilding her armor. She looks like an old god, one who deals out mercy and vengeance together. “My sister’s death has always served as a reminder to me of what good intentions can do. To mages, kindness is cruelty. They are born with a terrible curse, and those of us that are fortunate enough to be born without it must help them manage it.”

She turns back to the desk, and shuffles papers with a final air. “I can’t do anything about your sister. She holds so much power in Kirkwall now that I fear riots if I try to bring her in. If you had done the right thing when you came to Kirkwall, the city would not now have this danger hanging over its head. But…” Meredith sighs. “I can’t blame you either. You did more than I had done – you left before it was clear what mages can become. I can trust you to do the right thing, and that’s why I made you a knight. Don’t forget that.”

Carver salutes hastily, and Meredith nods him out of the room. In the hall, he leans his feverish forehead against the cool marble. His Knight-Commander’s face swims hazily before him – _do the right thing._ Merrill’s blood magic mirror below the Gallows, the abomination healing people in Darktown. He’s tempted to walk right back in there and say _I’m not the man you think I am. It wasn’t for love of doing the right thing. I’m not as noble as you believe I am._

 

All morning, Merrill can think of nothing but Carver, lyrium-addled and sprawled on her bed. She slept poorly last night after he had staggered back to bed: Carver, eyes blue-tinged, begging on the streets. Carver, pepper-haired and bleary eyed, telling confused stories at the Hanged Man about his glory days as a templar. Carver, in a cell as a vagrant, unable to string two words together. In the dining hall, in the training courtyard, in the library, her head is full of the nightmares and she barely speaks a word to the other mages. Even the sight of a Tranquil in the mages’ library, which is unusual, doesn’t faze her. The Tranquil woman drops a book with a heavy thunk, causing Apprentice Jaken, who is _supposed_ to be researching fire runes, to glance up. Merrill, with her eyes on the page, hears him suck in his breath. “Helena!”

Many mages say they find the Tranquil’s blank stares disconcerting. For Merrill, the worst moment is not the stare, but the moment before, when the Tranquil meets your eyes. In that moment the eyes are unguarded, windows to the soul. In Tranquil, the eyes are blank and cool. There is nothing to see. Glancing from Jaken to Helena, Merrill sees anguish in his eyes and _nothing_ in hers.

“Helena, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Jaken glances around, sees no one but Merrill, and continues. “You weren’t in any of our old spots.”

“We had not arranged a meeting.” Helena stacks the books again, and turns to leave.

“Helena!” Jaken cries out, clearly louder than he had intended. The Tranquil stops again. “Please, don’t you remember me?”

“You are Apprentice Jaken. We were once involved in an illicit relationship.”

Merrill quickly casts her eyes down. She might not always get all of Isabela’s innuendo, but _illicit relationship_ is pretty clear and it’s none of her business. However, she can’t close her ears to Jaken’s hoarse, incredulous gasp. “Illicit? Helena, I love you!”

Helena says nothing, but there are no footsteps. Merrill focuses on the page so hard that her eyes begin to water, not daring to look up.

“I am Ser Alrik’s now.” Her tone, smooth and flat, somehow makes it so much worse. Jaken sobs once, muffled and broken, and Merrill hears the even footsteps of the Tranquil retreating. She expects to hear Jaken throw back his chair and run out, but there is nothing save ragged breathing.

She finally dares to look up.

The apprentice has his face buried in his hands, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. Merrill reaches out tentatively for his shoulder. “Jaken, I…”

“He’s the demon,” Jaken chokes out finally. “If they want to find demons, they should start with him.”

“He is a demon,” she agrees, and she speaks nothing but the truth. Two days ago, Brinwen had found Alrik speaking with one of her apprentices, almost at the Harrowing. He had been convincing her of the difficulty of the Harrowing, the likelihood she would die an abomination. The girl had been terrified and asked for the Rite. Brinwen hadn’t been able to stop it. Or a week ago, when Merrill had found one of the newer knights looking around in her room. She had threatened to report him. He had sniggered and told her if she complained, he’d have her branded, he was friends with Ser Alrik. She is too afraid to test whether he was bluffing. Or the death of Enchanter Caitlyn, ruled a suicide. Jumped from a fifth-story window, coincidentally where Alrik’s office is. Tragic.

 

Merrill has been hearing whispers as she walks around the Gallows, whispers from the templars and the mages too.

_Ser Alrik’s doing right, the mages are too rebellious now._

_Magic is a sin, a curse – the Rite can set you free._

_Should turn ‘em all Tranquil…’cept you have to look at Tranquil in that case._

_Tranquility keeps our souls from the Void._

_Someday, when we have all learned to control ourselves, we shall sit at the Maker’s side._

One day, she visits Orsino in his office. He’s scribbling on a piece of paper, and when she clears her throat at the door, he slams it into the desk as though he doesn’t want her to read it. A message to a lover, perhaps? It’s not her business, but she watches the First Enchanter more closely, and she notices how grey his skin is these days, and how his shoulders are bowed. It is his duty to protect and advocate for the mages, and that gets harder with every passing day.

She doesn’t see Carver as frequently, either. He used to remove his helmet when he saw her, risking the displeasure of his superiors, but now when she catches sight of him he’s a faceless monolith. The helmet hides his features, hides his wide smile when he sees her, hides his bright blue eyes. She checks the dirt in her flowerpot for messages, but nothing comes.

Then comes a day when the templars enter her room, helmets on and one with a sword unsheathed, and Merrill panics, thinking that they’re here to accuse her of practising blood magic and planning to brand her. The one in the lead comes forwards to where she cowers in the corner and removes his helmet. “Enchanter Merrill?”

Merrill meets the cold eyes of Ser Alrik and finds herself dumbstruck with terror. But they aren’t here for branding.

“I am sorry to inform you that this potted rose is against regulations. We do not allow personalized decorations in the Gallows.”

She finds her voice at last. “But…I’ve had it for a long time.”

“Yes…” Ser Alrik crosses the room and cradles a blossom, impossibly gently. “I’ll have a word with the templar that patrols this particular set of rooms. He ought to have removed it years ago.”

“Couldn’t it stay?” Merrill is ashamed of how weak her voice is. “Please?”

“I’m afraid not. You see, proper enforcement of the Circle’s rules leads to order and peace within the Gallows. If we do not enforce our rules, chaos will ensue. Order is paramount.”

Her cheeks flame. “You mean control.” Merrill nips at her lip as soon as the words escape, horrified at herself.

Ser Alrik pauses, seeming almost interested. “Yes, that too. Control is essential for everyone. Without it, we are no better than animals.” Losing interest, he picks up the rose and strides out of the room, his templar retinue following. Without the plant, the room suddenly seems more cold and barren, lacking in color. Merrill sniffs, brushing at her cheeks. On a whim, she looks under the pillow where she kept the handful of halla fur from her old robes. That’s gone, too.


	10. Chapter Ten

Carver is summoned to meet Ser Alrik in his office. He drags his feet, not wanting to look Ser Alrik in the eye. His other superiors are men and women that Carver can respect and admire, but Alrik worries him. He’s heard rumors about Alrik’s treatment of mages. It’s true that almost every templar has rumors told about them (more than once Carver has heard it said that he’s a mage sympathiser) but the new crackdown has been driven by Ser Alrik, and Carver has had to attend far more Tranquil rites in the past few months than ever.

Ser Alrik’s office is neat and tidy, reflecting the man’s habits. He likes order in everything. On his desk, there’s a rose, one that wasn’t there when Carver was here last. It looks a lot like…oh, no.

“Ser Hawke.” Ser Alrik gestures for Carver to sit down. Carver slowly lowers himself into a chair, fists clenched under the desk. _If Merrill had been made Tranquil, you would know. You would know._

“Does this plant look familiar to you?”

He finds he can’t lie. “Yes.”

“If that’s the case, then why wasn’t it removed before?” Alrik leans forwards, clasping his hands together on the desk.

Carver isn’t sure what to say. Alrik has to know that Carver gave Merrill the rose initially. The wily old templar has his finger on every pulse in the Gallows. He collects and hoards knowledge like a dragon with treasure. When Carver glances up, he sees a glint of amusement in Alrik’s eye. He knows, and he’s playing with him.

“I…didn’t follow the rules. Ser.”

Alrik sits back. “I see. And why is that?”

“I thought it was harmless.”

Alrik nods. “So many young templars do, even those who are knights. When it comes to mages, Ser Hawke, _nothing_ is harmless. They are all vipers, just as likely to turn on you as they are to slither away.”

Carver nods obediently, although he doesn’t believe a word. Alrik smiles. “Does this mean that you have a preference for this mage?”

Carver jerks back involuntarily. “No!” He wonders if it sounds too loud, too immediate. Too unbelievable.

The older knight tilts his head to one side. “No?”

“No – no. I just felt sorry for her, is all.”

“Remember, Ser Hawke. Vipers.” Alrik sounds like a snake himself. “Not to be trusted.”

He nods, standing up so quickly he knocks over the chair.

 

Orsino storms into Merrill’s room, ranting incoherently. The tips of his fingers spark as he waves his hands around, but Merrill catches only fragments. “- against Chantry law – damned if I let them carry on like this – no provocation whatsoever -”

“Orsino,” she tries. “What’s going on?”

The elven mage slams his fist down on the windowsill. “I’ve been unable to act against them branding all the apprentices and the young enchanters, but you two are senior enchanters past your Harrowing! Completely against all law! Why don’t they just brand us all? It’s clearly what they want to do!”

Merrill feels an icy chill down her spine. “What are you saying?”

Orsino’s shoulders drop. “Meredith called me in today. She’s considering an order for the Rite to be performed on you and Brinwen. I told her there was nothing that you could be accused of, but…”

“No!” Her scream is thin, as terror already freezes her up. “They can’t!”

“They’re accusing Brinwen of trying to escape, although they know she was only out late gathering herbs and got locked out. And they’re accusing you of controlling a templar with blood magic. I told them that it was a lie, that you haven’t been practising blood magic.”

She forces herself to speak. “Which templar?”

He turns around. “I told you not to get friendly with them. It’s Hawke. Ever since the incident with the rose, they think you’ve been controlling him.”

“I have to speak with him,” she says desperately. “He can’t let this happen.”

“Don’t trust a templar to stick his neck out for a mage,” Orsino says darkly. “That kid would lose his knighthood if he defended you.”

She opens her mouth to deny it. _He brought me the mirror. He brought me the rose. He’s been my friend all the time I’ve been here._

It _does_ look as though she’s been controlling him.

“I promise I’ll still speak for you,” Orsino says. “I’ll do whatever I can. This is unbelievable.”

Actually, it’s very believable, Merrill thinks. With Ser Alrik, it’s very believable indeed.

 

The same evening, she slips down to the cellars below the Gallows, anxiously checking her time to make sure she’s back before curfew. Slated for branding as she is, she can’t take one wrong step now. But if she is going to be made Tranquil, she won’t miss out on one last try to fix the mirror. The cellars are pitch-black, so she uses magelights to find her way. Carver had once asked her how she managed to find her way through the maze of the cellars to the eluvian, when she had needed Varric’s ball of twine to navigate the marketplace in Lowtown. She’d given him some mystic answer about magical pathfinding. The truth was that she’d marked her path with brightly colored pebbles instead.

At the eluvian, she draws out all the blood magic she dares. Above ground, she never uses blood magic, but she _knows_ that the only way to fix the eluvian is through blood magic and the spirit. It would have been better if she could go and speak to him, but her promise to Carver still holds her. They have her phylactery. She’s got nowhere to go.

The eluvian is smooth and blank, with a purple-silvery sheen. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, Merrill thinks she sees the merest hint of a shape in it: a flash of blond hair, perhaps, or the glint of sunlight off an arrowhead. But when she looks directly at it, it vanishes. In those moments, she cuts deep into her arm and pulls out all the magic in her blood, flooding the mirror with it until its surface is crimson. She tries spells of healing, spells of awakening or reincarnation, spells to find things and spells to unlock things. She casts spells of disillusionment and spells of knowing. She casts spells that the spirit mentioned, spells that Marethari mentioned, and spells she found in old fragments of elvhen lore or in dusty books of the library. Sometimes they require elaborate rituals, sometimes they require nothing but a drop of blood and her will. Sometimes they don’t require blood but mana, and she exhausts herself, wishing for a taste of lyrium. The only thing they all have in common is that they never work.

Tonight, she smears blood into its surface and tries spells she found in a book that Orsino recently acquired from a rich and deceased donor. The book was purported to have been written by Tevinter magisters, and she thinks with grim humor of how Fenris would be revolted if he knew. However, the Tevinter magisters are the strongest mages there are, and if they don’t know how to fix it, who will?

She pours her blood and her mana into the mirror until she’s too exhausted to stand, and then she just slumps at its foot, reduced to simply wishing and praying for it to work. The mirror does her clan no good sitting in here, she knows that already. But it’s the only thing she has left of them, and the only thing she has left of her heritage, which they stripped her of as surely as they took her staff and robes. _There has to be something._

She’s so drained and exhausted that she barely hears the sound of tramping feet echoing through the cellars. Then someone shouts “Down here! She went down here!” and Merrill leaps up, heart kicking into overdrive. They’ve found her. She’s going to be branded a good deal earlier than Orsino was expecting.

She hitches up the skirts of her robes around her knees, and darts down a side passage, and is hopelessly lost in a matter of seconds. The sounds of templar feet and templar voices are all around her, but never seem to get any closer or further away. The echoes and clangs are driving her half mad, if she wasn’t already mad with fear, and she runs this way and that, sobbing and panting. Eventually she falls to her knees, overwhelmed by loss of blood and terror. The stone corridors have changed to hallways carved from the rock, and ferns and moss grow in the crevices. If they have to brand her, Merrill wants it to be here, where she can at least see something green before her soul is gone.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Whenever a mage gets away, there’s a hue and cry to rival the night that Andraste died. A special alarm goes off in the templars’ barracks, and they all have to get out of bed and strap on their armor, just in case the mage who just went rogue also goes abomination, and many templars are needed to subdue it. More often than not, the rogue mage turns out to be a teenager who comes back quietly, and the templars stand around in full plate for half the night before a senior officer thinks to tell them that they can go back to bed.

The alarm goes off near midnight, and Carver heaves himself up out of bed, all his muscles protesting due to having been beaten into the practise mat by Meredith earlier that day. Everyone stumbles to the armory, strapping on weapons and plate with drowsy fingers and complaining about _damn alarms, never get any sleep, couldn’t we just let one go once in a while?_

Carver rubs sleep out of his eyes and casts a world-weary look at Moira, who rolls her eyes in return. Another young templar comes running in late and passes the word around that he’s heard Ser Alrik is going after this one, so no doubt the runaway mage will be back in no time at all.

They stand in the courtyard with Ser Emeric stalking in between the ranks, delivering a heavy-handed tap to any templar who’s slouching, or put a gauntlet on crooked. The word is that the mage ran down into the cellars, and so every templar’s eyes are fixed on the cellar entrances, hoping that any minute Ser Alrik will emerge and they can all go back to bed.

It doesn’t happen for the rest of the night.

In the morning, Meredith handpicks several templar squads, and has them comb the cellars. Carver is assigned to follow Meredith and his stomach is roiling at the thought that they might uncover Merrill’s mirror. He knows that she hides it when she’s not trying to fix it, but Meredith is nothing if not thorough.

The Knight-Commander carries the runaway mage’s phylactery, someone called Ella whom Carver has seen a few times. The hum of the magic carries them on a convoluted route through the cellars, where they eventually break through into a maze of caverns.

“I’ve never been down here before,” Moira says in awe. “Are there this many caverns under all of Kirkwall?”

Meredith is focusing on following the phylactery’s trail, so Carver answers. “There’s a lot. Kind of like Darktown, but with fewer vagrants.”

Moira snorts, but bites her lip as Meredith puts up a mailed fist. “Stop.”

The two of them remain as the Knight-Commander advances slowly, sword drawn. She disappears through a low archway, knees bent and ready to fight. Carver leans forwards a little to try and see, but then they hear Meredith hiss “Alrik!”

Moira runs forwards, and Carver after her. Meredith is standing before a scene of carnage. Ser Alrik and the five templars sent with him are dead. The mage, Ella, is lying near Alrik’s body, with a terrible puncture wound through her stomach. Moira gasps and looks away. The stench of rotting bodies fills Carver’s nostrils, and he fights down a retch.

The Knight-Commander kneels down next to Ser Alrik’s body. “He was not killed just by magic. All of them; their wounds are from magic and weapons as well. This mage wasn’t carrying a weapon.”

Carver bends over a templar’s face, so scorched by fire that the skin is blackened and split, with clear fluid crusted on the wounds. He wants to look away, but forces himself to check the body. Resolutely, he ignores the thought that Marian is probably the most proficient fire mage he knows. When he turns the body over, there are two long dagger wounds in the man’s back.

Moira examines a templar archer’s wounds, inflicted by a greatsword from the look of them. Carver glances at Ella, spread-eagled on her back with the gaping wound. The last time he had visited Marian, he remembers seeing Anders carrying a staff with a large leaf-shaped blade on the end. But why would he kill mages?

Meredith stands up, her jaw clenched. “Ser Hawke, run and find the other search teams. These templars have to be brought back and buried with honor.”

“What do we do about…?” Moira ventures timidly. Meredith glares at her. “About what? Their injuries? Am I about to tell the world that someone can just waltz into the Gallows and kill my templars? Ser Alrik and his men died fighting an abomination. Fortunately, they managed to kill it before they succumbed to their injuries. If I hear either of you say anything to the contrary, it will be a dishonorable discharge for both of you.”

Carver shuts his mouth immediately. As he jogs through the maze of pathways, shouting for the other templars, he resolves to find out what happened.

 

It isn’t easy to get away from the Gallows during the funeral. Carver eventually lies to Thrask and tells him that his mother is ill. The templars fill the courtyard, where the dead templars are laid out in state. Mages aren’t allowed to attend, but as Carver leaves the Gallows, he sees dozens of faces peering down from the windows of the mages’ tower.

He finds Mother out visiting Gamlen, but Marian is at home, sitting in front of the fire. When he sees her, he knows he was right. Marian’s robes are bloodstained, and her hair is in disarray.

“Didn’t you bother to change?” he asks, coming into the library. She doesn’t even raise her head. “Get out.”

“Meredith’s forbidden any inquiry,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb. “So don’t worry.”

She breaks a twig in two and throws it into the fire. It flares up green and blue. He twitches instinctively. “Can’t you control yourself?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Marian’s voice is flat. “If I was worried about the templars catching me I wouldn’t have roasted your pet sadist alive.”

Carver turns away. “Alrik did some things wrong. But to just walk into the Gallows and kill him?”

“ _Some things wrong,_ ” Marian mocks. “Did Merrill tell you that?”

He snaps back. “What about her?”

“Didn’t that snake ask you to sign his petition to make every mage Tranquil? Would you have been all right with that?”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“Here.” Marian tosses a folded piece of paper at him. “His Tranquil solution.”

Carver unfolds it, his hands shaking in his haste. “To Her Excellency, Divine Justinia…” His voice trails off as he reads. “He wanted _what_?”

“Anders found it out.” Marian takes back the letter. “He asked for my help.”

Carver closes his eyes. Everything is whirling. “But the Knight-Commander…she rejected it.”

“More and more mages were being made Tranquil. We had to do something. With or without Meredith’s approval, he was working on his solution.”

“But…Ella.” He breathes out the last word, waiting for Marian to eviscerate him. To tell him that over the years he’s killed so many mages, so why should it bother him when he finds one already dead? To ask why he isn’t happy that it’s one less mage that he has to kill himself?

Marian stares into the fire. She’s quiet for so long that Carver thinks maybe she didn’t hear him after all, and he hopes she hasn’t. Then she moans aloud and tangles her fingers in her hair, pulling hard. “That damned abomination.”

“Anders?” I knew it, he thinks. That staff.

“I…Maker, I can’t help him. It’s killing him…it’s killing _me_. Every day, he’s a little less human, and all I can do is just _watch_ as he falls into the Void…”

“So stop seeing him! Tell him you can’t help him anymore!”

Marian laughs, cold and hard. “Like you told Merrill that you couldn’t help her with the mirror?”

“It’s different!”

“No, it’s not. We’re both idiots, in love with fools. It’ll destroy us both.”

Carver puts out his hands. “Marian, stop. Just stop. Go to bed, or…or have some warm soup, or something. Just…don’t do this anymore.”

“I’ll go to bed if you get out of my house,” she says dryly. “That work for you?”

“Sure,” he says, relieved at her habitual coldness. That, he can deal with. “Tell Mother I stopped by.”

“She’s walking around with her head in the clouds anyway,” Marian says, shaking her head. “A whole bunch of suitors keep dropping by the damn place. Someone sent her some white lilies the other day. I swear, if she expects one of them to move in she’s got another thing coming.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

In the chaos surrounding Ser Alrik’s death and the Gallows-wide hunt for him, nobody had noticed Merrill was gone. She snuck back in as the search teams were leaving, and waited with the other mages to hear what happened to him. When the report came back that Ser Alrik had been killed in the pursuit of a mage, there were muffled cheers. It was the first time in months that Merrill had seen Orsino smile.

The mages’ tower is happier now that Ser Alrik is gone. Meredith might rule with a heavy hand, but at least she doesn’t turn mages Tranquil without any provocation and abuse them terribly. There’s more laughter and chatter. The Tranquil remain, however, a silent testament to the man who ruined them so utterly.

Still, the Gallows was designed to be a prison for slaves, and over its rich history, it has never strayed very far from that path. The templars are more vigilant than they were when Merrill first came here. They twitch at the slightest spark of magic, and are constantly looking over their shoulders. She attributes it to fear. No one dared say very loud what they thought might have happened to Alrik, but five templars and a senior officer are not brought down by an apprentice armed with nothing but an eating knife. Nor does it escape anyone’s notice that the entrances to the cellars are now guarded by faceless knights.

They hear rumors of the world outside as well. Orsino is always well-informed, although his letters are subject to search and seizure like everyone else. Merrill suspects that he has a network of informers outside the Gallows, probably elvhen servants who go unnoticed by anyone. He shares bits of news with the enchanters over breakfast every morning, news that is likely hugely exaggerated or even completely false, but they’re always glad to hear it.

_Some elven fanatic poisoned half of Lowtown. She stole some savage poison from the Qunari._

_The Chantry’s been torturing Qunari. They snatch them from the docks and chain them up in Darktown._

_The Qunari are kidnapping elves. They take them away and brainwash them, so they serve the Qunari only._

_Women are disappearing off the streets. Someone’s been saying it’s a blood mage._

Carver used to tell Merrill things he had seen when he went on patrol outside the Gallows, but nowadays it’s so difficult to meet with him, especially since her rose was lost. The Order keeps an especially close eye on templars that they think are fraternizing with mages, and Carver has already been conspicuous for that. Fortunately, with Ser Alrik’s death, the order for Merrill and Brinwen’s Rites seems to have been set aside.

She misses him. When she sees him in the library, or guarding the dining hall, she glances away instead. His helmet is so impenetrable, turning him into something _other_. If his eyes widen when he sees her, or he blushes, she would never know.

 

Carver and Moira are practising fighting shoulder-to-shoulder against another pair. Meredith has been setting more group combat exercises lately, rather than the solo fighting that they used to do. There is a lot of speculation in the templars’ quarters what she means by it.

After they win several fights in a row, thoroughly trouncing their opponents, they take a break for lunch in the garden courtyard, ravenously tearing into stew and bread. Moira tells him about Ser Emeric, whom pretty much everyone has written off as a lyrium-crazed man past his prime.

“I think he’s on to something,” she says around a mouthful of bread. “Seriously. Women are disappearing, and the city guard won’t do a thing.”

“I know the guard-captain.” Carver spears a chunk of beef. “There’s a lot of words I’d use to describe her, but inactive isn’t one of them.”

“So why hasn’t she done anything?”

“Maybe because he’s not on to something? Maybe he’s just…” Carver waves his fork, hoping that conveys _off his rocker_ without offending Moira, who looks up to the old man as a mentor.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re just like the rest of them. You’ll see. He’s gone to investigate a lead in Lowtown. I hope you apologize when he catches the killer.”

“Sure, sorry,” Carver says absentmindedly, reaching for more stew.

 

The next day, Carver is particularly surprised to see Marian striding into the Gallows, with Isabela, Anders and Aveline in tow. He moves to cut her off before Meredith can catch sight of her. “What are you _doing_? Don’t you know she’s just dying for a chance to run you through?”

“Someone here had to be told.” Close up, Marian looks exhausted. There are a few grey streaks through her hair already, and her skin looks waxy. “I found your Ser Emeric dead in an alleyway in Lowtown last night.”

Carver reels with shock. “Let me…let me find Moira.”

 

“No!” Moira cries.

Marian shifts from foot to foot, looking embarrassed. “I’m…sorry.”

Moira bursts into tears. Carver interposes himself between her and his sister. “Could you tell what happened?”

“I had to wade through demons to get at him. Wasn’t he investigating some murders?”

“He was convinced that every murder in the past few years was related,” Aveline says. “I couldn’t shut him up.”

“He was right, then, wasn’t he?” Moira says hoarsely, glaring at her through red eyes. “Why would someone have wanted him dead if he wasn’t about to reveal something?”

Isabela throws her hands up in the air. “It’s not a real morning in Kirkwall if you haven’t had to kill half a dozen abominations and blood mages before breakfast.”

Noticing that Moira looks about ready to throw a punch, Carver butts in. “Were there any clues?”

“I wasn’t playing twenty questions with the demons, Carver,” Marian says acidly. “I killed a blood mage a couple days ago that I thought was connected with the murders. Guess I was wrong.”

“Gascard DuPuis,” Moira gulps. “Ser Emeric suspected him.”

“Yeah, him. But there weren’t any clues to run on in his house.” Marian looks away. “If we’re done here…”

Carver waves her away. Moira is still bent over, her arms wrapped around her middle. “I’m so sorry, Moira,” he says softly, touching her shoulder.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

 

Meredith puts her fist straight through her desk at the news. She rants up and down her office, enraged about the blood mages that are seemingly everywhere and have now killed two of her senior templars. Carver awkwardly straddles the doorway, eager to get out of her sight as soon as possible. Her temper has been more volatile lately; she sees blood mages in every corner. Carver isn’t sure whether to be worried, or grateful at least that she doesn’t suspect Marian. The Knight-Commander ends up giving him orders to take a patrol through Lowtown to look for blood mages the next morning.

 

Merrill is crossing the courtyard the next morning when she sees Gamlen walking in, which is rather unusual as whenever he comes to visit Carver, it’s late at night and he is dead drunk. She waves at him, but he ducks his head and hurries straight through to the templar quarters. _That’s odd._


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Within an hour it’s all over the Gallows. Merrill is frantic to try and find Carver, but he’s nowhere to be seen and she suspects that Meredith has given him the day to spend by himself. She haunts the courtyard outside the templar quarters like a ghost, anxiously checking every helmeted templar that emerges. Many of them give her curious looks, but there’s nothing in the rulebook that says precisely she _can’t_ be there, although she imagines that if they wanted to they could find a pretext to evict her pretty quickly.

It’s late morning when a female templar emerges, helmet off. Merrill vaguely recognizes her as a templar that was close to Ser Emeric. The woman glances at Merrill, then does a double-take. “Aren’t you…Enchanter Merrill?”

“Yes?”

“I know…” The female templar pinches the bridge of her nose. “Damn. Look, it’s illegal and everything, but you and Carver are pretty good friends, right? He needs someone to talk to.”

She raises her eyebrows. “In…there?”

“No one’s in there right now, they’re all on duty. If you get caught, I’ll say he had a migraine or something and needed you to cure it.”

“Thank you,” Merrill says, heartfelt. The templar waves her hand. “It’s for him. He’s in a bad state.”

The templar quarters are cool and airy. Merrill treads cautiously over the carpeted flagstones, looking for door number 32, as she had been instructed. The door is far down the hallway, shut tightly. She picks up her courage and knocks gently. “Carver?”

There’s a surprised hiss, and the door flies open. “What are you doing here? You’ve got to get out!”

“Your friend says she’ll cover for me.” Merrill stares, shocked. “You look awful.”

He makes an odd sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Guess you could say that.”

She sidles around him into the room, still gazing at his face. Carver’s eyes are bloodshot and sunken in his face, giving him a horribly skeletal look.

His eyes follow her around the room, with a vacant, hollow expression. _He’s lost,_ she realizes. _He doesn’t know what to do._

“Oh, Carver,” she says, overwhelmed. “ _Ir abelas, ma vhenan_.”

“What?” he says hazily, stumping back to his bed. She follows him over and sits next to him. “It means…I am filled with sorrow for your loss.”

Carver buries his face in his hands. Merrill touches his shoulder, uncertain of what to do. His silent, heavy grief gives her no clues. They sit there like that for a while, as she rubs his shoulder lightly and he breathes heavily and steadily into his cupped palms.

“I’m supposed to protect people from things like this,” he says, so softly that she almost doesn’t catch it. “I’m supposed to guard people against blood magic.”

“You can’t do everything,” she says, just as quietly.

“I can’t even do the one thing that matters,” he mutters. “Protect the people I love. If I can’t do that, I’m worse than useless.”

She can’t stand to hear him say that. She wraps her arm around his shoulders and hugs him tight. “No, no, _ma vhenan_. Terrible things happen, and no one is to blame except for the people that do them. That’s all.”

He turns his face into her shoulder and sobs roughly. “I can’t do this, Merrill. I can’t keep doing this.”

“None of us can.” She rocks him back and forth, wishing she knew the right thing to say. “But we have to.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

The messenger comes late at night, a dirty boy from the streets stuffing a slip of paper into Meredith’s hand during evening inspection. She scans it quickly, her face becoming more and more set with every word.

“Ser Hawke, Ser Cullen, Ser Ruvena, Ser Moira,” she raps out. “Full armor. Come with me.”

Carver casts one longing glance at his bed, but obeys Meredith, snatching up his helmet as he hurries after her.

“Knight-Commander?” Cullen queries. Meredith ignores him, striding down to the dock and leaping into the boat with feral grace. When the boathand pushes off, she turns to them. In her hand she still holds the message.

“The Grand Cleric just sent me this note. There’s some sort of disturbance with the Qunari at the Chantry. I want all of you ready, no matter what’s happening there.”

“What _is_ happening?” Ruvena asks timidly.

Meredith shakes her hand, crinkling the note into a little ball. “She doesn’t say, which means it’s bad.”

 

The Chantry doesn’t look like a place under invasion from Qunari. Bathed in the late sunset, it looks peaceful and solid like it always does, a refuge. The Gallows has its own smaller chantry, but Carver likes to go to the Kirkwall one when he can. A few days ago, he went to light a candle for Mother there.

Meredith stalks up the stairs and pushes the ornate doors inwards. “Grand Cleric?”

Elthina is already there, standing before the golden statue of the Maker, with a body slumped at her feet. To her left is a mother of the Chantry – Carver can tell by her robes – who looks familiar. On her right, glaring at the mother, is Marian, her face streaked with blood. Now that he looks, there are bodies everywhere…civilians armed with scythes, homemade daggers, a hunting bow or two. Horror zig-zags through him like lightning.

Meredith draws her greatsword with an audible hiss of metal against metal. “Murder in the Chantry,” she says. “What happened here?”

Marian glances over. “Self-defense.” Her gaze travels from Meredith to Carver, and her face whitens. It’s the first time that they’ve seen each other since Mother died.

“Murder of civilians is not self-defense!” the mother says, her voice grating, and Carver remembers her. Petrice, that’s it. The woman who had tried to get them killed as a political ploy.

He leans towards Meredith. “Watch out for her, Knight-Commander,” he whispers in her ear. “She’s more dangerous than she looks.”

“What’s more, the viscount’s son!” Petrice continues, pointing at Marian accusingly. Carver cranes his neck, and sees that the body at Elthina’s feet is Seamus, his bright turquoise eyes staring, hair matted with blood. “You’re a danger to this city. Grand Cleric, Knight-Commander, arrest her!”

Marian steps forwards, forcing Petrice to retreat. “You’re the murderer here. Remember Ketojan?”

A flash of fear crosses Petrice’s face, as she glances towards Meredith. Smuggling Qunari saarebas under the city is the sort of thing Meredith frowns upon.

“There is no need for further violence here,” Elthina says mildly. “The young mother has clearly acted in accordance with her judgment.”

Carver has no idea what’s going on, and clearly, neither does Meredith. The Knight-Commander advances on Marian and Petrice. “Explain yourselves.”

Petrice points to Marian again and is about to launch into another tirade, but Elthina intervenes. “I think I can explain this. Mother Petrice has anticipated the Maker’s will.”

Meredith’s eyes narrow. For a templar, she has little patience with religious talk. Elthina continues unhurriedly. “The Maker’s will is little known to us, and eternity is long enough that we need not rush to meet it. Committing sins in the Maker’s name does not make these sins any less terrible. Perjury, falsehood and murder are all crimes that the Maker frowns upon, no matter in whose name they are committed. The young mother has certainly erred in her judgment.”

Petrice goes pale. “Grand Cleric?”

Meredith takes the moment to grasp Petrice firmly by her elbow. Elthina folds her hands in front of her, as though she is praying. “I am sorry for her fall into sin. But a court must decide her fate now.”

“Grand Cleric!” Petrice makes the mistake of struggling against Meredith’s iron hold. The Knight-Commander exerts little pressure, but Petrice bends, her knees folding.

“Serah Hawke,” Elthina says, turning away. “Please, send for the viscount.” She kneels beside Seamus and gently closes his eyes.

Against all expectations, Petrice begins to chuckle. She glares up at them all, shoulders shaking with dark mirth. “You’re too late. It can’t be stopped. Can’t you hear them?”

All of them pause, straining their ears. Distant to Carver’s ears, like a far-off river, is a low roar. He turns towards the doors. The noise seems to be coming closer. Elthina rises, the blood draining from her face.

Meredith shakes Petrice like a dog. “What have you done?”

“The people are rising up to protect their true faith. They’re coming for you, all you hypocrites, you false witnesses. Anyone who let the Qunari attack the faithful will be ground into dust.”

Meredith raises her hand, and to her credit, Petrice doesn’t flinch, just stares back at the Knight-Commander. It’s Elthina who lays a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “No more violence today,” she says softly.

The Knight-Commander curses under her breath. “Ser Hawke, Ser Cullen, you’ll clear the way.” The sound of a bottle crashing against the door makes them all jump. Meredith’s mouth thins. “No one should be allowed into the Chantry till this mess is cleared up. No one lays a hand on this woman, do you understand?” She turns to Marian. “Hawke, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but we could use your help getting out.”

Marian nods. “I can do that.” Carver nods, determined. Cullen pulls at his shoulder. “Let’s get out there.”

Meredith twists Petrice’s arms behind her back, and marches her from the shrine. “Get ready,” she orders, her voice terse.

“Knight-Commander!”

At Moira’s high-pitched, frightened shriek, Carver spins around to see where she’s pointing. There’s a swish – something brushes past his face so close that he yelps and jerks out of the way – and Petrice makes a terrible gurgling noise behind him. He hears Meredith’s exclamation of fury at the same time that he hears the distinctive crash behind him; a body dropping to the floor, suddenly limp.

p>A Qunari face emerges from the darkness of the storeroom’s staircase. With his horns and red face paint he looks like a demon from the Fade, floating in the shadows. The Qunari grunts in satisfaction, and speaks, pointing a carved bow at Petrice’s corpse.

“We look after those of the Qun. We do not abandon our own.”

Meredith lunges for the Qunari, drawing her sword as she does, but the Qunari steps back and simply melts away. She runs up a few steps, but the Qunari has vanished as though he was never there. Marian kneels beside Petrice’s corpse. “Dead before she hit the floor.” As Meredith turns back, Marian shrugs. “It’s just as well. I would have shot her myself.”

Carver catches the disdainful look that the Knight-Commander gives his sister. “Indeed.”

Marian carries on. “I’m not leaving by the front entrance now. There’s a back-alley exit in the dormitories. We should go out that way.”

Meredith bristles. “I’m not hiding from my own people.”

“Suit yourself. But they want blood, and they don’t care whose.”

Cullen interrupts. “Knight-Commander, I think it would be best.”

Meredith doesn’t like it, but they end up going out the back exit. Marian nods to Carver, and disappears into the darkness, taking the back alleys to her mansion. He and the other templars slip around the Chantry’s garden, where the mob in front of the Chantry comes into view. It fills the entire square, figures carrying torches and homemade weapons. The noises are mostly indistinct, wordless roars of hatred, but every once in a while he catches _death to the ox-men_ or _protect the faith_ , and when that happens, the speaker is boosted upon the shoulders of the mob. The mob is an animal, a beast with a will all its own. They sneak past, feeling like criminals in their own city, till they reach Viscount’s Square and can breathe easy again. Meredith straightens up with a sigh, slips the dagger she was carrying back into its sheathe.

“You lot go with the Knight-Captain. I’m going to get the city guard and the viscount.” She rubs at her eyes. “The viscount’s son dead, a mother shot by a Qunari in the Chantry itself…the streets will run red before this is done.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fairly graphic descriptions of violence.

The city is humming with anxiety. Whatever’s going to happen, it’s going to happen soon. News of the murder of a mother in the Chantry has leaked out to the people, and there are protests and fights picked with the Qunari. On his rounds, Carver sees Aveline and her guardsmen patrolling the streets, weary and harassed. They try to keep the rule of law, but the law itself is breaking down, as the viscount seals himself in his rooms and weeps uncontrollably for Seamus.

It comes as no surprise a few nights later when a templar recruit, breathless from his sprint, bursts into the dining hall for templars and shouts “The ox-men are taking over!”

Meredith rises from the end of the table with a face like thunder. She grabs the templar recruit by his breastplate, almost by his throat, and demands everything he knows.

The templars race to their quarters, Carver running among them. Helmets are jammed on and breastplates strapped over civilian clothes. Carver grabs his sword and sun-shield, and as an extra precaution hides two throwing knives down his boots. Father had taught him how to throw knives as a child, saying that everyone should know how to hit someone at a distance, whether with magic or arrows or knives. The other templars are ranging from fearful to determined, with Paxley blabbing at the top of his voice about how he always knew that the ox-men couldn’t be trusted.

Meredith, flanked by Thrask, Karras and Cullen, throws open the door to the templar quarters, throwing everyone into confusion as they try to finish suiting up and saluting at the same time. She snaps out orders, dividing the templars into groups headed by senior officers. Carver ends up with Meredith, who is going directly to Hightown. The Knight-Commander storms ahead of them like a madwoman, intent on one thing only. Any Qunari getting in her way are swiftly cut down, her templar escort barely needing to do anything. Carver is awestruck by her and frightened at the same time. At the entrance to the Red Lantern district, there is a large group of foot soldiers and a saarebas, led by a sten. Meredith charges in and cannons into the sten, knocking him over. Carver feels the hum of magic in the air and puts two fingers to his forehead, Silencing the saarebas. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Meredith strike the sten with the pommel of her blade, stunning him. She attacks one of the foot soldiers from behind. She’s a machine, powerful and utterly ruthless. In minutes, the Qunari are decimated, largely thanks to her.

The sten groans and twitches. Meredith kneels on his chest and forces his chin up. “What’s your Arishok doing? What’s his plan?”

Carver has to admit that the sten is fearless. The violet-eyed Qunari glances up, past Meredith’s face, into the night sky and simply breathes out.

“He’s…dead,” Ruvena says.

Meredith curses and kicks the body to one side. “We’ll go to Viscount’s Square. Whatever they’re doing, they need to get to the keep.”

As they run down the streets, Carver hears fighting ahead. “Sounds like a mage.” The roaring of fire and the sharp crack of lightning is distinctive.

“Double time!” Meredith orders.

Carver pants under the weight of full plate, struggling to run faster. A faint cry comes from the square. “May the Dread Wolf take you!”

_Oh, flames._

“It’s Orsino,” Meredith gasps, sprinting ahead of them. The square is just visible at the end of the long street, and Carver sees figures fighting, falling. _Don’t die, damn it. Please don’t die._ He forces himself to sprint, but the last one in mages’ robes crumples up as a Qunari sword cuts into it.

Meredith bellows incoherently, colliding into the kossith and taking its head off with a single blow. Carver roars as he slams his sword against a sten’s blade, pushing the Qunari backwards. The sten is incredibly talented with a blade, and it’s all that Carver can do to block his blows after the initial impact. Soon, he’s not pushing forwards but being pushed back. Desperately, he shoves his palm outwards, focuses hard, and lets out a Smite. The sten staggers, and Carver takes the opportunity to plant his greatsword in the kossith’s chest.

Someone cannons into his back and he spins around, ready to fight, but the kossith is already on fire. Carver steps backwards instinctively. “Marian?”

His sister blows past him, already conjuring another firestorm. “Less talk, more stabbing things!”

“Right,” he mumbles, at once confused and relieved. Now that he looks, he sees Aveline’s orange guard uniform in the fray as she faces off against three karasaad. A crossbow bolt takes one in the chest, and he hears “Bianca, you minx, that was beautiful!” Galvanized, Carver tears into a fresh pack of Qunari, fighting with redoubled vigor.

Marian brings her staff down with a mighty crack, and lightning sparks off from every direction. It leaps from Qunari to Qunari, and they fall in rings around her. She straightens up with a dark smile.

Meredith tugs her sword free from a karashok’s corpse. The Knight-Commander walks forwards slowly and gives Marian a long, up-and-down glance. Anders, standing behind her, touches her shoulder protectively. Marian colors under Meredith’s scrutiny, but doesn’t drop her gaze.

The tension is broken as a mage sits up from the ground, cradling his head. “…Knight-Commander?”

Meredith turns away from Marian and holds out her hand to pull the First Enchanter up. “You’re alive,” she says, and Carver can’t tell if it’s relief or anger in her tone.

Orsino has no such doubts. “Sorry to disappoint.” He glances around. “Oh, no…all dead?”

Carver is jolted into action. He and the other templars search among the mages’ corpses, Carver turning over mangled bodies with increasing desperation. That’s one of the senior enchanters, Brinwen, with her forehead smashed in. And Jaken…Maker, he had just passed his Harrowing. He jogs between bodies, searching for a shock of dark hair, a small frame. Over behind the pillars, there’s a pile of Qunari bodies. He falls to his knees beside them, moving their corpses aside in an increasingly frantic search. _She can’t be dead. You haven’t found a body yet_.

He shoves a saarebas aside and his fingers brush smoother, more delicate skin. Her hand pokes up from between two karasaad, so sickly pale that she might well be dead. He grabs her hand, his pulse pounding so loudly that he can’t tell if there’s an answering pulse in hers. Her fingers are limp – they twitch – her hand seizes around his. Carver almost faints from relief.

He heaves the bodies off her and finds her, lying prone and bloodied. “Merrill? Merrill!”

Her eyelids flutter. “Carver?”

Marian’s just across the square and so is Meredith and every other templar, but he can’t help himself. He grabs her shoulders and pulls her to him, hugging her tightly. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

“I’d like to avoid getting crushed by huge piles of Qunari too,” she says, her voice muffled against his plate armor.

He pulls back reluctantly. “What are you doing out here? How did you all get out?”

Her eyes spark. “It’s our city too, Carver. We weren’t just going to sit around and let it get taken. Besides, the Qunari hate us even worse than you do.”

He can’t deny that. Fighting the saarebas is unnerving; what with their mouths stitched together in fear that they might say a forbidden word, their hands fettered so they do not make a forbidden move.

They’ve attracted the attention of Meredith and Orsino. The First Enchanter comes towards them and helps pull Merrill to her feet. “Thank the Maker you survived.”

Merrill glances over his shoulder at Marian. “I’ve had some practise in near-death situations.”

“We need to get into the keep,” Meredith says, sheathing her sword. “Orsino, get back to the Gallows. We’ll speak about your liberal interpretation of Circle rules later.”

The First Enchanter squares off against her. “This is our city too! Haven’t enough of us died in its defense to convince you of that?”

Marian bulls in and pushes them apart. Carver winces. “Shut up, both of you. I’ll need you both to get into the keep. We’ll attack them head-on and cut our way in.”

Meredith nods. “Good idea. Orsino, Merrill, stay out of range and work defensively.”

They advance up the stairs to the keep, only getting halfway up before a loud, enraged yell comes from the atrium. “Vinek kathas!”

“Here we go,” Marian mutters, throwing a fireball up the steps. The templars around her are looking warily at her as she begins casting spells in earnest. Carver keeps his head ducked down and only looks at the Qunari he’s killing. Marian’s blithe carelessness grates on him.

“Cut me a path!” she yells at the templars. Meredith nods and bulls aside a saarebas, Silencing him as she goes. Aveline also slices aside foot soldiers, pushing forwards to the keep.

Merrill raises her hands above her head, then sweeps her arms down in a grand gesture. Great tendrils of nature magic arise from the stones and wrap themselves around the Qunari, sucking them down into the earth. The templars edge away from her, looking fearful. Carver sees the half-smile on Merrill’s face as she makes a final gesture, and the Qunari are dragged under the rocks. _She’s enjoying this._

“Move, Hawke!” Meredith shouts. Marian runs for the entrance. “We’ll hold them off here. Get to the viscount!”

His sister turns her head back for a second, just enough to see her nod once, and she vanishes into the keep. Aveline, Anders and Varric follow. The Knight-Commander points her blade down the steps. “They’ll be all over us soon enough. Ser Hawke, take three templars and guard the entrance to the Chantry. Take Merrill too. I’ll hold here with the rest of them.”

He salutes her and grabs Merrill’s hand, dragging her along. His three templars follow behind him at a run. The Chantry is not too far away from the keep, but it seems an eternity as they run past beggars scavenging off the dead, or fresh corpses in doorways. The youngest templar, Kidan, turns away and vomits as they pass a horribly mutilated priest.

At the Chantry, Carver scans his options. The wide staircase makes guarding it a nightmare. He raps out orders to his templars. “Cynthia, Bryen, guard the left-hand side. I’ll take Kidan and watch the right. Merrill, get to the upper level and cast from there.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” the damn fool mage says, crossing her arms. His heart races. “Do as I say, now.”

She gives him one last reproachful look and runs light-footed up the steps to the upper balconies. Carver turns to his templar. “Ever been in a fight before?”

Kidan looks terrified. “Practise fights.”

_Damn._ Carver grits his teeth. Damn Meredith, who put templar recruits not even blooded yet on the front line. “Stick with me, and you’ll be fine.”

“Ser Hawke!” Bryen points at a group of Qunari coming up from the Lowtown entrance. Carver draws his sword and clangs it on his shield. “Come on, then!”

Carver fought Tal-Vashoth with Marian, so he knows the strength of the Qunari. He knows their persistence and dogged determination to survive against any odds. His templars do not. Six months ago, the templars saw the Qunari as a minor irritant, not important enough to even elicit attention. Now they pay for it with their lives. Bryen is the first to fall, when one of Merrill’s spells fails for an instant and Bryen overreaches, forgetting to shield his side. Carver bellows his name, but the templar is dead before he hits the cobbles. Cynthia goes down next, the power of the saarebas too much for her magic neutralization.

The Qunari flood up the steps, so Carver retreats, pulling Kidan with him, and they end up with their backs against the Chantry doors. Merrill fights her way to his side with lightning bolts and entropy magic. For a moment, Carver thinks that they might be able to hold out, he thinks that the Qunari might consider the Chantry too minor to waste so many attacking. It’s nothing but a fantasy, though, and the Qunari keep coming. To capture the Chantry would be a blow to everyone and a triumph for the Qun. The Qun triumphs at any cost.

Kidan takes a spear in his side as the Qunari press up the stairs. His scream is boyish, childish really. Carver flings himself over the kid’s body, fighting defensively to preserve it. Kidan scrabbles at the Chantry stones, mumbling prayers through lips that are quickly going numb. No matter how hard Carver fights, there are always more, more pushing him away from Kidan’s body before it even cools. Merrill cries out as one of them slices at her leg.

“It’s no good,” she shouts above the fight. “I have to.”

It’s too dangerous. Meredith will kill you, and then she’ll kill me too for good measure. I’m a templar, I can’t let you do that. A dozen reasons fly through Carver’s mind, but he can’t seem to articulate any. Instead, he says “Do it!”

Merrill dips her fingers into the wound on her thigh and draws deep on her magic, until there is a red haze around her torso. With a pinching motion of her fingers, the Qunari around them have their blood boil in their veins, turning from silvery grey to a hideous mottled red in moments. The other Qunari fall back down the steps as their grim purposefulness turns to terror.

Carver leans back against the carved Chantry doors, chest heaving. “Good one.”

“I thought you didn’t think blood magic was very good.” Merrill sinks down to her knees.

“Changed my mind when we were about to die.” He glances down at her, smiling, and for one blessed moment, it feels as if nothing has changed. As if they’re both fighting alongside Marian, and he’s wearing a plain vest and wielding a hand-me-down sword, while she’s in green robes and halla fur.

“Run,” he suddenly says.

She looks up at him, her green eyes wide. “What?”

“Run. We’ve got a moment. I can tell Meredith you got away in the heat of the battle. They won’t be able to chase you for days after this. You might even be able to reach Ferelden before they come after you.”

Merrill pushes herself to her feet. “You don’t mean it?”

He reaches out to brush his gauntlet against her cheek. He’s about to die anyway; be damned if he doesn’t do something right by her for once. “I mean it. I want you to get away. You deserve a life free of this shit.”

Merrill looks away, over the smoky rooftops. They’ve been fighting all night and dawn isn’t very far away; there’s a faint pinkish glow on the horizon. “Get away,” she repeats softly. He nods. His cheeks feel wet. He’s going to blame all the blood for that. “But you can’t come too.”

“No. It’s not the same, anyway. No one asked you if you wanted to come to the Gallows.”

She doesn’t even seem to be listening to him, really. She’s gazing out over the city, where the early sunrise is reflected in her eyes. Suddenly, she blinks and swings around to grab him by his pauldrons. “No. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

He jerks back in surprise, but she’s got tight hold of his armor and she ends up crashing into his chestplate. Instinctively, he puts a hand on her waist to steady her. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean what I say. I’m not leaving without you.”

His heart feels as though it’s about to burst out of his chest. “Merrill-”

She launches herself up on her tiptoes and kisses him hard. The shock of it makes his jaw drop and she leans in, fisting a hand in his hair. Then he suddenly realizes just _what’s happening here she’s kissing me_ and he’s afraid it’s some kind of illusion or desire demon that has him spelled, but it doesn’t matter because he can think of a lot worse realities than this one, and his hand tightens on her waist and he kisses her deeper…

She breaks away as quickly as she kissed him, readying her staff as the Qunari overcome their fear and march back up the steps. “Right, let’s fight some Qunari, _ma vhenan_.”

He grins dazedly at her, until a Qunari sword comes far too close and he has to get down to the serious business of protecting himself.

 

As the second wave gets fiercer and Carver is beginning to doubt that he’ll ever have a chance to kiss Merrill again, he hears a wild battle cry and looks out over the square to see Marian attacking the rear. She roasts rank after rank of them alive, and carves her way up to them. “Still need me to save you again, little brother.”

“Took you long enough,” he retorts, sheathing his sword. “What’s happened?”

“I killed the Arishok.”

Carver’s jaw almost hits the stones. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.” She scowls. “Tough bastard.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“With a dead viscount and a messy city. Aveline’s on it, though.”

“If I know anything about Meredith, she’s on it too.”

Marian looks even more forbidding than usual. “That’s not happening. It’s not the Order’s job.” As Carver opens his mouth to retort, she puts her hands up. “I don’t want to bicker with you. The Knight-Commander wants to know where you are. She thought you might have all died.”

Carver looks down at the bodies around him. “Very nearly.”

“Then get back to the Gallows, brother.” Merrill sidesteps all the bodies neatly and departs, without a word to Marian. As Carver passes her, Marian grabs his arm. “You’re a little shit, but I’m glad you’re all right.”

He looks down, forces a laugh. “Same to you.”

 

The Gallows is emptier than either of them have ever seen it; dozens of mages and templars are lying dead on the streets of Hightown and Lowtown. Meredith is at the viscount’s hall, with Orsino in tow. For once, there isn’t any shouting from vendors hawking their wares, the clang of templar boots on the marble or the shushed whisper of mage robes on the ground. All that they can hear is a world-without-end quiet. They don’t need to speak – for once, all the barriers are down. Things run together in Carver’s mind – Merrill’s small hand clasped in his own – sneaking through the cellars, a magelight illuminating their way – his heart swelling in his chest. _Merrill._

Merrill has a horrible memory for directions, which is ironic considering that her entire task in life is to remember. Some things, however, she remembers distinctly, the memories striking a clarion note in her mind.

She knows that this night with Carver will be one of them. Her fingers running over the burnished surface of his armor, pulling at the straps. He mumbles something, maybe it’s _let me do it,_ strips off the breastplate. The arch of her back when he pulls her to him properly, skin to skin, her veins just below the surface, her vallaslin trailing down her shoulders, down her back. Lips, warm and wet, tongue sliding over the blood marks. She shivers – _you’re cold? No…keep going_. When she slides her hand down and grasps him, he coughs, almost growls. Guilty – _that wasn’t very sexy_. She giggles – _I liked it_. The thrill through her stomach, low and animalistic, his hand brushing against her sex. Cool dirt against her back – _do you have a blanket? I don’t sleep here._ Rolling over, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. Low in his throat – _shit, that’s cold_. Isabela might have said _it’ll be warm soon enough_. Kissing him instead. Pressing against him – no lyrium, no Knight Commander. He’s here, and she never wants to let go. His thumb brushing against her cheeks, brushing the tears away. _What’s wrong_? Shaking her head – _it’s nothing, ma vhenan_. Her hips shift, settle – _there, yes, there_ – his muscles strain beneath her. He pulls at her hair, bucking upwards, she sinks down.

Afterwards – _you’re beautiful._


	16. Chapter Sixteen

The rebuilding of the Gallows takes a long time. The templars’ ranks are severely diminished, and there are barely any Harrowed mages anymore, Orsino having taken most of them out to fight the Qunari. Young mages took the opportunity of a loosely-guarded Gallows to escape. Carver has a lot of long days where he struggles to recapture mages that destroyed their phylacteries when they fled, and when he returns empty-handed Meredith berates him for it. But when he walks past Merrill and she shoots him a small, secret smile, he thinks that maybe the day hasn’t been such a waste after all.

Merrill and Orsino have their hands full training the apprentice mages. Orsino wants them to pass their Harrowing quickly, so Meredith can’t have them made Tranquil as easily. As there are so few templars, Meredith sometimes comes and guards the training rooms personally. She rarely wears her helmet, but Merrill finds her icy eyes even more frightening than a faceless helmet. Maybe it’s because she hardly ever blinks, or maybe it’s because her expression never changes. She doubts that her expression would change even if Meredith had to strike down one of Merrill’s apprentices in front of her.

Marian is titled the Champion of Kirkwall in a grand ceremony held in the Chantry. Normally, the viscount would bestow such an honor, but Kirkwall seems unable to settle on naming a new viscount, and so Grand Cleric Elthina is the one to do it instead. Carver attends, as does the rest of the Order. He sees Varric and Aveline in the audience, but no one else, until he turns around to see a dark figure in the shadows. It’s Anders. Carver glares at him – how dare he come into a Chantry after everything he’s done? – but the mage simply stares at Marian. After the ceremony, when Carver goes to congratulate Marian (feeling as though he’s eating lemons while he does), he spots Anders skulking in the alcove behind her. Close up, the mage looks terrible – his eyes are sunken, and his robes hang loosely on his bony frame.

At first, when Merrill is one of the only enchanters in the mages’ tower, and Carver suddenly finds himself as a respected Ser, training new recruits, they have very few opportunities to meet in the cellars. When she passes him in the hallway, she has to move far away so that she isn’t tempted to brush her hand against his cheek. They manage a few stolen kisses, in a dark doorway just before curfew, or in the storage room when the Tranquil manager isn’t looking. She buries her hands in his hair and he clings to her as though he’s drowning and she’s the only thing that can save him. Sometimes, if they meet just after breakfast, she can taste the lyrium on his mouth, and when that happens she holds tightly to him and buries her face in his neck. The lyrium reminds her that this is a stolen season, and no one ever said that mages and templars were meant to be happy.

But as the rebuilding continues apace, and more mages pass their Harrowing to be enchanters and more recruits are knighted to become Sers, it’s easier to meet again. She scratches a little black mark on the cellar door in charcoal, and when he sees it he knows that she’s waiting for him. She hides the eluvian behind a storage cupboard, but afterwards, when she has her arm wrapped around his waist and her head on his chest, his eyes wander to the cupboard. It’s not only to meet him that she still comes down here.

The illusion of a peaceful season crashes down soon enough, of course. Several of the enchanters that Merrill coached through their Harrowings are found to be plotting a major escape. Meredith accuses them of blood magic, although Orsino protests that he never found evidence of blood magic when he checked them. She has them all made Tranquil, and threatens furiously to make the rest of the mages Tranquil as well. Carver finds her raving about the duplicity of the mages in her office. When he tries to calm her down, she pins him to the wall and accuses him of being a mage sympathizer. It takes him hours to persuade her that he’s not, that her templars aren’t slacking on their duties, that the mages aren’t all practising blood magic.

The blood magic plot has severe repercussions. Meredith enacts new rules about searching the quarters of the mages. Every week, she insists that all the mages have their rooms turned inside out. The mages have to submit to examinations every morning, where a templar checks their skin for tell-tale cuts that were used in blood magic.

(“How’s this for a full-body examination?” Merrill says.

“I didn’t think you’d want to joke about that,” Carver replies, running a finger down her side.

“Only here.”)

Orsino protests against the new measures, but Meredith is driven, and the templars are backing her out of fear of the mages and fear of her. She hardly seems to sleep any more. Every day, there are more reports of magic in the city, and more rumors of demonic possessions. A child sees a hideous, flaming figure down in Darktown. Someone reports seeing a mage’s staff in a rich household in Hightown. Everyone skirts around the Champion, however. Marian has given up hiding her magic, and now everyone knows about Anders, too. Meredith rages about the healer in Darktown, but her hands are tied so long as Marian protects him. At the very least, Carver is glad that no one’s guessed the healer is actually an abomination. 

It doesn’t sink in how much time has passed since they’ve come to Kirkwall as dirty refugees until Carver goes to visit Marian’s house one night for dinner. His sister has grey combed into her hair, although she can’t be much past thirty. (Can she? It’s been years.) Anders is at the house too. Carver gives him plenty of space, but the abomination keeps glaring at him. Once, Carver might have hated him, but now he pities him. Anders’ eyes have spiderwebs of blue light through them, and he seems insubstantial, as though he’s only half here, and half in the Fade. Marian ignores it, and Anders himself seems unaware of the physical changes. Maybe he never noticed them to begin with.

When he leaves to see to his clinic, Carver broaches it tentatively with Marian. “Is Anders…all right?”

Marian reaches for a bread roll. “You mean, will he suddenly sprout extra heads and go on a murderous rampage?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Probably not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.” Marian pushes her chair back and gets to her feet. She stands with her hands pressed into the table for a moment, head down. Carver reaches out to touch her hand. “Marian…”

“Sod off,” she says brusquely. “I don’t need your pity, Carver.”

You have it anyway, he thinks, but out loud he just says “You’ll have to deal with it when the time comes.”

“I would anyway. You templars won’t need to get involved. He deserves better than that.”


	17. Chapter Seventeen

The common room for senior enchanters is emptier than ever. Merrill sits cross-legged in a chair, a book open in her lap but ignored. Orsino still has his favorite window seat, but so many other seats go unoccupied. Mages that passed their Harrowing, that studied and worked and lived here for so many years, are now Tranquils in the storeroom picking out herbs for apprentices, or lying cold in the Gallows graveyard. Every year Meredith’s iron hold tightens, and it gets worse and worse.

She waits for Orsino to return from Viscount’s Square. This morning there was a branding. Afterwards, he had paced the floor of the library, raving about Meredith. _She can’t keep doing this, she can’t refuse to tell me who she’s going to brand. I’m the First Enchanter, I need to know, I need to be able to fight this. This is an outrage._ Sympathy for mages is high at the moment, after Marian’s investment as Champion, so he had gone down to the square to protest.

Down in the courtyard, Merrill sees Orsino being escorted in by two faceless templars, and runs down to meet him.

“I tried,” he says, when he sees her.

Merrill shakes her head. “I told you it wouldn’t help.”

“Hawke backed me,” the First Enchanter says, as they climb the stairs. “She said that the templars were out of line.”

“Meredith must have been angry.”

“She was furious.” They enter the library, and Orsino pulls out a chair with a groan. “If the Grand Cleric hadn’t gotten involved, she would have taken that great big sword to me.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Merrill says, sounding a lot more certain than she feels. Before Orsino can reply, the library door is flung open and two templars stalk in. “This library is now closed.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon!” Merrill says, rising.

“It is now closed,” the templar repeats. “All mages are confined to quarters.”

Orsino gets up. “That’s ridiculous. I demand to see the Knight-Commander.”

“She wants to see you too,” the other templar says. “Enchanter Merrill, downstairs, please.”

Using magic against a templar is rarely effective and also strictly forbidden, but Merrill sorely wants to fling a lightning bolt in his face. _You can’t just order me around,_ but of course, they can. _You can’t just treat me like a child_ , but isn’t that the point?

Orsino stomps out of the library with one of the templars. The other one picks up the book Merrill was reading and shelves it. “Downstairs, please.”

 

Carver and Ruvena get off the boat from the Docks and wearily trudge up the steps to the Gallows courtyard. “If you’d have just let me Smite him, we’d have him by now,” Ruvena says, again.

“The Docks are full of people. You’d have killed half-a-dozen at least,” Carver says, again, by rote. They have this argument all the time. It’s her blaming him, or him blaming her, or they’re blaming someone else completely, whoever they went out with. Missing catching a mage is now a punishable offense, Meredith banning them from duty for a week as they’ve “made the city less safe.” No one likes having to sit around for a week doing nothing, so everyone tries to pin the blame on someone else.

The courtyard, usually full of mages and recruits, is abnormally empty. “What…where is everyone?” Carver looks around, startled. It reminds him of what the Gallows looked like just after the Qunari invasion.

Knight-Captain Cullen sees them and beckons them over. “All mages are confined to quarters. The Knight-Commander has decided that it would be safer for everyone.” Cullen closes his eyes briefly.

“That’s ridiculous,” Carver says. “Locking them in their rooms all day? The rooms are barely bigger than their beds.”

“It’s for the good of everyone,” Cullen says flatly. “You forget yourself, Ser Hawke.”

Carver’s mouth twists, but he throws a brief salute. As they turn away, Ruvena says “What do we _do_ now? Just guard their rooms?”

“I guess so,” Carver says, thinking of Merrill. He needs an excuse to go see her. What provoked all this?

 

The distance from her bed to the window is four and a half paces. She’s walked it one hundred, twenty-one times. That’s…what is it? Four times twenty is eighty, and four times one hundred is four hundred, and four times one is…

A loud knock sounds on the door. “Night inspection.”

She knows that voice. “Come in,” she calls, trying to keep her tone even.

The bulky templar squeezes in through her door. He removes his helmet. “Merrill? What happened?” Carver asks hoarsely.

She throws herself across the room at him. Maybe it’s emotional, but she hasn’t seen another person all day and the silence is oppressive. He catches her around the waist and crushes her against his breastplate. “What in flames is going on?” he says into her hair.

“Orsino was preaching in Viscount’s Square, and Meredith came after him,” she explains quickly. “He thought she was going to lop his head off with that big sword, but Marian came along and told Meredith she was going too far. Elthina had to break it up.”

“And Meredith ordered that mages be confined to quarters?”

“Yes. Orsino was furious, said he was going to protest, but I haven’t heard from him since.” She closes her eyes. “I haven’t seen anyone.”

She feels Carver shudder, and looks up at him, but he’s looking over her head. “Barbaric,” he mutters. He leans down and kisses her quickly. “I have to go. Night inspection isn’t very long.”

“Carver!” she says as he’s walking out the door. He turns back. “The eluvian.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. If I bring it up here, they’re bound to find it.”

“Can you get me down there?”

He closes the door. “Merrill, please. Can’t you just…wait to fix it?”

“If I wait to fix it, I’ll be dead,” she says briskly. “Meredith doesn’t seem very eager to let us out yet.”

He sighs. “You haven’t made any progress. It’s been years.”

“But I’m so close!” she says, and it’s nothing but the truth. She had managed to fuse two pieces together, and they were reflecting things that she didn’t understand. Images of strange fruit, a decorative belt buckle that she’d never seen before. But for some reason, the spell hadn’t worked on the larger pieces, and so she just had the one fragment. “It’s not working yet. But it will be.”

“It’s…” Carver rubs his eyes, and she knows that he wants to say _a fool’s errand_ or _a waste of time_. Then his shoulders drop. “All right. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.” She bounds across the room and drops a light, off-centre kiss on his mouth. He breathes out and she tastes the minty flavor of lyrium. “How much are they giving you?”

“Of what? Oh…” He glances down. “It’s been increased,” he admits.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Carver glances over his shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Come back soon.” She’s reluctant to let him go, but he slides away from her and disappears into the dark.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

The Gallows is emptier now with the mages all locked away. Carver patrols hallways dusty from lack of use, stares at locked doors, pretends to guard people that aren’t really there. He casually peeps into Merrill’s room once in a while, checks other rooms so it doesn’t look as suspicious. When Marian comes to the Gallows one day, she’s shocked at the echoing halls. She accuses him of working for a corrupt, cruel organization. Once he would have fired back, and believed in it too. Now he’s not so sure that he can. Meredith asks her to hunt down three mages that escaped just before the lockdown. Standing outside, leaning back against the cool marble, he hears Marian tell Meredith just what she can do with her request. Meredith threatens her right back – _apostate, your continued freedom depends on this city’s goodwill_. Storming out of the office, Marian gives Carver a judicious shove. _Don’t blame me for your choices, sister_. 

He hears later that she killed all three of them.

Weeks go by and Merrill has her room mapped out down to the last step. Once a week, perhaps, Carver can manage to smuggle her down to the room where her eluvian lies. When they can snatch a moment, they make love in the damp cellar. It isn’t very romantic, but they’re past caring; she leaves fingernail scratches across his back, he pushes her up against the wall and drinks her in. Then he has to leave, and she lies on the ground for a while before the eluvian, trying to catch her breath again, willing her heart to slow down. The eluvian remains silent to her.

One night Carver is leaving the cellar, his gauntlets strapped on at odd angles and a stupidly happy smile on his face, when he hears voices floating around the corner and has to run for the shadows. It’s a group of four people, all cloaked, but it’s hard to miss Thrask’s thick red hair. The person next to him speaks into his ear and turns towards the moonlight, and Carver sees the distinctive tattoos across her face. Thrask and Grace and who knows who else in the courtyard at midnight. Carver waits till they pass by, holding his breath, then sneaks back down to the cellars to collect Merrill. It’s too much of a risk tonight. But why were they there?

No more mages escape, but there are dozens outside the Gallows walls that do all they can to impede the functioning of the Circle. Meredith believes that they’re organized, a true resistance, and she sends templars out in groups to track them down. They’re wily, though, and difficult to find with no phylacteries to guide the templars. Carver is tempted to ask Marian if Anders knows anything about it, but he knows that Marian would never tell him. The apostates’ favorite trick is to raid supply wagons coming from Orzammar with lyrium. Sometimes they’re cut down to half rations when there haven’t been any lyrium trains for a few days. Carver finds that on half rations, his brain is fuzzy, and there’s a ringing in his ears that won’t go away no matter how much he tries to clear them. His Knight-Commander’s orders sound as though they’re coming from far away. When he splashes water on his face in the morning, before his mirror, he can catch the faintest tint of blue to the whites of his eyes, near the corners. If he sees this, he rushes to put on his armor, jam his helmet onto his head. If he hides it, maybe it’ll go away.

Marian comes back to the Gallows only once, when Orsino sends her a note that somehow slipped past official channels. Meredith is livid, but can’t really object to what he asks her to do. Carver isn’t the only one who’s noticed templars in odd places at odd times.

The word comes late in the evening next day. Cullen bursts into the Chantry, where Carver is meditating. “Get up,” he says tersely. “There’s a problem at the Wounded Coast.”

“What sort of problem?” Carver follows him out of the Chantry and into the warm late sunlight.

“It involves your sister and a group of templars and blood mages.” In the courtyard, several other templars are waiting, faceless in their helmets. Cullen nods to them, and they march down to the dock to the waiting boat. “I can’t believe it. One templar falling prey to blood magic is understandable, but this is…” Cullen shakes his head. “Too many.”

In the boat, a ragged man is curled up on a pile of sacks. Carver glances at him, then looks again. “You’re…”

“That addict in Lowtown.” The man – Samson, Carver recalls – grins at him, his teeth broken and rotted. The blue tint to his eyes would have shown him to be an addict, if the constant shiver hadn’t given him away. “Aye, and you’re now a fine upstanding templar. Got a little of the lyrium yourself, didn’t ya?”

Carver’s gut clenches and he turns away. Cullen says matter-of-factly “Samson came to us with a report about a templar-mage alliance. They were trying to undermine the Knight-Commander, but then Orsino sent Hawke after them, so they kidnapped someone to make her leave them alone.”

He almost wants to laugh. _Yeah. Good plan._

“It’s for her support.” Samson chuckles. “And her silence.”

“You don’t know her,” Carver says. “Did they kidnap Anders?”

“Some mage from Darktown.”

Carver nods. “She won’t rest till each and every one of them are dead. She doesn’t take threats.”

“No skin off my nose.” Samson stretches comfortably. “I just came here to let you know.”

“And what did you get in return?” he asks. Samson just chuckles again. Cullen clears his throat awkwardly. “I have authorized Samson’s reinstatement. He has proven himself a true friend to the templars.”

Carver stares at Cullen in disbelief. “You’ll reinstate an addict?”

“He’ll be fine once he has lyrium again.”

Carver leans closer to him, out of Samson’s hearing. “He’s a man with no ethics, no morals, he’ll sell either side out so long as there’s some benefit to him.”

Cullen grabs Carver’s arm and marches him further down the boat. “Every day,” he whispers in a savage tone. “Every damn day I look at this order and it’s descending further into chaos. Young templar recruits who can’t strike a blow at the Harrowing, recruits that pass love notes to mages. Every day I’m out in my sun armor I have someone spit on me, someone whisper behind my back. There aren’t enough recruits to keep the building guarded, let alone the mages. The Knight-Commander’s more and more suspicious every day. So don’t tell me that I’m dishonoring the uniform by letting Samson in. I damn well know that. But I _can’t do anything about it._ ”

Cullen releases him with a jerk and Carver staggers back against the rail. The older man shakes his head and turns towards the prow.

 

It is scant comfort to Carver that he’s proven right, when they dock and find the ruins on the Wounded Coast covered in blood and Marian standing over the mage Grace’s body. As Carver runs towards her she draws her knife and sinks it into the mage’s chest, twisting hard. “Just to make sure,” he hears her spit into the corpse’s face.

One of the younger mages from Starkhaven, Alain, is bending over Anders. Marian rises from Grace and joins him. “Can’t you wake him?”

Alain shakes his head. “Not by normal means. They used…blood magic to hold him.”

“So wake him up with that.” Marian wipes her knife and is about to put it away when she sees Carver and Cullen. “Oh, you. Always late to the party.”

“What’s that apostate doing?” Cullen asks suspiciously.

Alain answers the question himself by sinking a blade into his palm. All the templars present feel the tug of magic. Cullen sucks in his breath, begins to raise his hand for a Silence, when Marian cannons into him. “Stand down,” she hisses. “He’s the only one who can wake him up.”

Cullen shakes her off. “Better that he stays under,” he mutters, but Marian has already turned away. The blood magic plays across Ander’s chest, sinking in to his skin, and he twitches and murmurs. Marian grabs his shoulders. “Anders? Anders, damn it, wake up.” Her voice is hoarse, as though tearful, though Carver can’t remember the last time she cried. The apostate shudders, then curls up to her. “Marian,” he whispers. She clutches at him.

Cullen clears his throat. “Champion, I have to return to the Gallows with this mage.” He rests a hand on Alain’s shoulder. The mage flinches at the touch.

Marian rises. “Go.” Alain looks at her with pleading eyes, as though he can’t believe that she’ll give him back to the templars. She turns a cold face to him, a basilisk stare. “You were with them. This was part of your plan.”

“I never meant it to go this far,” Alain mumbles. “I didn’t want this.”

“Neither did I.” Marian turns back to Anders.

 

At the Gallows dock, Meredith is waiting for them. She hears Cullen’s explanation in silence, then turns to Samson. “You can prove your dedication to the cause. Take this blood mage to the Tranquil courtyard. Paxley, get the brands.”

Samson gazes at his feet, mutters something. The Knight-Commander yanks his chin up. “Pardon me?”

Carver has to strain to hear it. “Lyrium.”

“Once the job’s done.” She forces his face away, like she can’t bear to look at him. “The rest of you, dismissed.”

Trudging up the steps, he feels guilty that he’s happy he doesn’t have to witness the ritual. His hands are bloody enough already. Moira meets him at the entrance to the dormitories. “Did you hear? One of the lyrium trains got attacked last night. We’re on short rations again for a few days.”

And despite the seriousness of it, the shakes and tremors that will return to him shortly, he can’t help but laugh at Samson. Poor Samson.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Merrill sits back and drops the eluvian shard on the ground. Carver’s right. It’s been years, and she’s made no true progress.

She isn’t going to give up, though. She is – was – a First, and a First’s job is to prepare to be a Keeper. And a Keeper’s job is to remember. If there’s nothing left to remember, the Keeper must be the one to discover it again.

The spirit was the first one to tell her how to cleanse the eluvian of its taint. He must know more than he had let on; though she’s sure that he’ll want more in return. Spirits are dangerous, but no more dangerous than practising blood magic in the depths of the Gallows. Merrill knows that she’ll exchange anything for the eluvian to be fixed. The eluvian could be worth so much to the elvhen; it could help them rediscover the secrets of Arlathan. Selfishly, it could help her see Tamlen. She could – she would – exchange her life for her clan.

 

Carver doesn’t like it, though.

“No,” he says flatly. “I help sneak you down to the cellars. That has to be enough for you.”

“You help me sneak down there to fix the eluvian,” she points out. “I can’t fix it by myself, I know that now. I need to speak to the spirit.”

“Merrill, for the Maker’s sake.” He throws up his hands and stalks to her window. She watches him go with a pounding heart. “I can’t. I just can’t. You’re talking about making a deal with a demon. I know about this! Don’t you think my father warned us all about the risks?”

“Don’t you think _I_ know about the risks?” Merrill demands. “I know how dangerous spirits can be. But there isn’t any other option.”

“Yes, there is! Stop trying to fix it. Forget about it!”

She sucks in her breath. “Forget it? That’s kind of the opposite of why I’m doing this.”

Carver turns back to her. “Look, I know…” He bows his head. “I know that what we’re doing to you is wrong. But somehow, this’ll stop. I promise. It’ll get better.”

“It’s got nothing to do with the Gallows!” As Merrill says it, she knows that’s not quite true. “It’s what I am _for_. I’m a Dalish First. I’m supposed to remember everything. Even the dangerous things.”

He rubs his eyes. “I can’t let you do this. I can’t smuggle you out, I can’t let you deal with a demon, for an old mirror.”

“I won’t let you stop me.” She squares up to him. “I know you care about me. But this is bigger than me, it’s bigger than you. It’s about my people. Someday, we’ll have a homeland again. It’s my duty to help us there.”

“If you do this, I’ll never see you again,” he threatens. “If you do this, it’ll be without help from me. And when they catch you, they’ll brand you. They _will_ catch you.”

“When they catch me, the deal will be made,” she says, blood pounding in her ears. “It won’t matter then.”

“You’re so damn eager to die!” he snaps back at her. “Don’t you care about anything here?”

If he hadn’t insulted her and thrown her hopes in her face, she wouldn’t say it. But he _had_ and so she does. “What do I leave behind? A jail cell and a templar addict?”

His skin goes chalky white. At once she regrets it, and reaches out to him. _Carver, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I did say something truly wrong this time_. Before she can touch his arm, though, he turns and and walks away, hesitantly, like a blind man feeling his way. She opens her mouth, _please wait_ but the door closes before she can say anything.

 

The cavern that the spirit is locked in was clearly chipped out of the mountainside by older civilizations than anyone knows. She stands before the altar, and cuts deep into her hand to summon the spirit forth from his imprisonment. The blood flows over the stone, and she stares dully at it. _If this is the right thing to do, then why do I feel so empty?_

It had been surprisingly easy to escape the Gallows; Carver’s late night visits had familiarized her with the guard schedules. Of course, the Circle still has her phylactery. When they find her gone, they’ll hunt her down. But between Carver and the deal with the spirit, she finds she doesn’t care quite as much as she ought.

At first, when the spirit doesn’t appear, she thinks that she hasn’t cast the spell properly. But when she repeats it, there is still nothing.

“He’s gone,” she mutters to herself, horrified. No spirit could break that seal. It would require…

“Da’len.”

She knows that voice better than her own. No need to hurry to turn around.

“Keeper.”

Marethari comes down the roughly hewn steps, her expression customarily serene, but tears in her eyes. “It’s been so long, da’len. I never thought you’d return.”

“I haven’t,” she says, guiltily. “If I had escaped, they would have tracked me to the clan. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“So you came here instead.” Marethari looks up at the idol filling the back of the cave. “I knew you were coming.”

“You…what?”

“I set wards here long ago. I couldn’t let you fall prey to the demon.”

Merrill steps back. “Keeper…”

“He can be killed, da’len. But only if you kill me.”

“No!” she says violently. “I won’t!”

“You must. It’s the only way you’ll be safe from the demon.”

“But what about you?” she wails, the wail of a child losing its mother.

Marethari reaches out and with infinite tenderness touches her cheek. Merrill closes her eyes over hot tears, leans a little into the touch. “Dareth shiral, lethallan.”

The soft touch turns to coarse rasping claws, and Merrill jerks back with an exclamation of fear. Audacity rises ten feet above her, its huge gaping grin bearing down on her. “ _Lethallan_ ,” it growls, in a mockery of Marethari’s voice.

She frees her staff and conjures a ball of lightning in her palm. “You monster,” she says, cold and quiet.

The demon fights her to a standstill, intent on sucking out her life. Merrill dodges its attacks, keeps it at a distance. Worse, it summons shades to fight for it. The shades of Hunter Chandan, Tamlen (Creators, no, please, not him), even a grotesque mockery of Keeper Marethari. They taunt her from the shadows. _Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Merrill. Everything that you touch turns to ash. You are a wound poisoning this clan._ She fights the demon with tears pouring down her face. Every time she strikes it, it cries out with Marethari’s voice, then laughs as it sees her wince in pain. She grits her teeth and repeats it over and over again to herself: this is no longer the Keeper.

At last, the demon shatters into the air, a thousand colors and voices at once breaking. Marethari slumps where it once was, curled up like a child. “Keeper!”

“You’ve beaten it, da’len.” Marethari rises slowly, a wide smile on her face. “The demon is dead. Now, let’s leave this dreadful place.”

Her heart breaks. The smile, the voice, the eyes, it’s all wrong. If the demon had known her Keeper better, maybe she might have been fooled. As it is, all this attempt does is hurt her more.

“Ir abelas, Keeper,” she says softly, then pulls Marethari to her in a final embrace. As she does, she slides her blade between the Keeper’s ribs. Marethari’s agonized gasp makes her flinch, as she lays the dying woman down. Merrill lets out a sob, pressing her forehead to Marethari’s heart. Small and quiet: “Mamae.”

 

Carver sees her come back to the Gallows. Right in the front door. He can tell at once that something’s wrong; Merrill is slumped over as if she had taken a knife wound to the stomach. He has to check the instinct to run to her, support her, hold on to her and ask what’s happened. But Meredith is right next to him and he knows that he can’t do that.

“Unbelievable,” Meredith says quietly to him. “I can’t figure this apostate out.”

“She’s…” Carver trails off, unable to describe exactly the person that is Merrill.

“A danger,” Meredith completes, with no difficulty whatsoever in describing Merrill. “Saves us hunting her down. I don’t know why she came back, but she needs to be made Tranquil.”

He has no idea what makes him say it. “She came back, though. Doesn’t that show she’s not dangerous?”

The Knight-Commander swivels to face him. “Ser Hawke, this mage escaped. She came back not because she feels that she did wrong, but because she’s after something. I don’t know what it is and I’m not waiting to find out.”

_Don’t keep arguing_. “Wouldn’t it be an incentive to other mages? If they escape and come back, we show mercy?”

Meredith steps towards him, scrutinizing him. “You are defending a blood mage, Ser Hawke. I trust you know that?”

The templars on the gate have already seized Merrill, and now they bring her forwards. She’s limp in their grasp, and when he looks at her, _talk to me, Merrill, please, what’s wrong_ , she doesn’t even look anyone in the eye.

Meredith tilts her face up and scans it. “You tried to escape the Gallows, mage. I trust you know the punishment for that?”

“I understand,” Merrill says, so softly that he can barely hear her. Carver waits to hear her excuse, to hear her say _something_ , to fight back, but there’s nothing.

“Good,” Meredith says, clearly relieved that Merrill isn’t going to resist. “Ser Hawke, take this mage to the courtyard, and get someone to bring the lyrium brands.”

Carver balks. _I’m not going to make her Tranquil. Damn you and her too, I’ve spent too many years loving her for that. Stupid, infuriating, intoxicating woman._

“Knight-Commander! Knight-Commander!”

Meredith glances over her shoulder at the templar running towards her. “What is it, Randley?”

“It’s the First Enchanter,” he gasps out, hands on his knees. “He’s gone to speak to the Grand Cleric. Says you’re abusing your power.”


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some descriptions of violence, and character (fairly canonical) death off-screen.

Meredith is in a towering rage. She storms ahead of the other templars, with her red greatsword out at the ready. Carver and the rest of the templars jog after her. Sweat is pouring down his face, not just from the exertion of running in full plate. This is just a temporary retrieve for him and Merrill. Once Meredith deals with Orsino (and he doesn’t even want to know how she’ll deal with him, given the mood she’s in) she will turn her attention to Merrill. She never forgets a blood mage.

“Orsino!” Meredith shouts as they approach the long staircase to Hightown. The mage turns around, and Carver has to give him credit, faces his fate.

“Knight-Commander.”

“I demand that you return to the Gallows. At once!”

“You don’t have any right to do that!” Orsino throws up his hands. “You act as a tyrant, but nothing in the Chantry’s rules permits you…”

“Hang the Chantry’s rules!” Meredith barks, running up the stairs at him. “My duty is to keep this city safe. If you interfere with that, nothing protects you.”

“I’m going to speak with Elthina. She’ll moderate this, and tell you what you’re doing is wrong.”

“You will not bring Her Grace into this!”

“Stop it!” The thundering voice echoes through Lowtown. Carver grimaces. _Just what this situation needs._

Marian rounds the stall corner and points at the two of them. “Meredith, I told you before, you’ve gone too damn far.”

“Stay out of this, Champion.” Meredith levels her sword at Marian. “It’s not your concern.”

“This is my concern!” she shoots back. “When you treat people as criminals simply for how they’re born, that’s my concern. I’m Champion of _everyone_ in Kirkwall, remember?”

“Will you champion murderers?” Meredith marches down the steps, punctuating every word with a footstep. “Will you say that to a mother who lost her children to an abomination? Will you champion them _then_?”

“We aren’t all murderers,” Orsino says. “You would cast us all as villains, but it is not so!”

The Knight-Commander turns to him, and suddenly Carver sees the girl with the mage sister, the girl who watched her entire family die to an abomination created out of fear and the desire to do good. “I know,” she says softly. “I know, and it breaks my heart to do so. But we must – be – vigilant. If you cannot tell me another way, do not brand me as a tyrant!”

“This won’t get you anywhere.” Anders steps out from behind Marian, and she makes a quick, instinctive movement, as if to pull him back. But either she misses, or he moves too fast, because suddenly he’s in front of Meredith and Orsino.

“Explain yourself, mage,” Meredith says venomously. Anders slams his staff into the ground, and blue lines of light race over his skin. The templars see it and draw back, hissing to each other. “You treat us all as monsters, and then you’re surprised when we bite back. The time has come to act.”

Marian’s expression shows confusion, and – for a moment Carver can’t place it – fear. He hasn’t seen fear on his sister’s face since she was eleven, and had accidentally stunned Father so hard that everyone thought he had died. “Anders, what are you talking about?”

The mage turns to Marian, and bows his head. “I’m sorry, love.”

The earth beneath them rumbles, and Carver throws out his arms to stay balanced. Red streaks of lightning race through the sky, and he whips around to see red light leaking from the Chantry. The rumbling intensifies, and with an almighty crack, as though the city itself had split in half, the Chantry explodes, spraying rubble into the sky, and fire throughout the city.

Marian screams something, but it’s lost in the roar of the explosion. Anders sinks to his knees, spiderwebs of blue light flaring on his skin. Meredith stares with open mouth at the ruins of the Chantry high above them. Orsino, however, turns to Anders. “You fool. You’ve doomed us all!”

Meredith bows her head. Carver, right next to her, only barely hears the word. “Elthina.” Then she straightens, and faces Marian and Anders. “The grand cleric has been slain by magic, the Chantry destroyed. As Knight-Commander, I hereby invoke the Rite of Annulment. Every mage in the Circle will be executed. Immediately!”

“You can’t!” Orsino turns to Marian. “We didn’t do this! Stop her!”

Marian seizes Anders by his robes, almost by his throat. “You lied to me!”

He sags limply in her grip. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

She drops him at her feet like a rag doll. “Go to the Void, Meredith. I’m not helping you slaughter mages.”

Meredith growls. “You are a fool, Champion.” She grabs Carver’s arm. “Come with me, Ser Hawke.” She raises her voice. “Kill them all! I will rouse the rest of the Order.”

Meredith’s grip on his arm is iron-strong, and Carver is dragged along whether he wants to be or not. He doesn’t even know what’s happening; it’s all moving so quickly. _The Chantry’s gone. That was Anders’ plan. Marian._

_Merrill._

 

Merrill plays with the ratty thread on the hem of her blanket. Maybe she should have hemmed that before. It might be nicer for the next poor mage who comes along.

There’s a tremendous banging at the door. “Come in.” _Get it over with._

Orsino flings open the door. “Merrill, get downstairs, quick.”

She’s so surprised that she rolls over and sits up. “What’s going on?”

“Meredith wants to annul the Circle. Hawke’s coming to help us fight her!” Orsino’s eyes are bright, with a nervous twitch.

“I…I don’t…” Two minutes ago, she was resigned to being branded. She was actually looking forward to it, in a sick, twisted sort of way. The horrible, horrible feeling would be gone. And if she couldn’t feel it, it was like it never happened.

“Come on! Get downstairs! We have to fight them!”

She swings her legs over the bed. “I…of course.”

 

She had fallen into the Brecilian river once as a child. The river is fast, deep. She struggled against it with all her little-child strength, but it had done no good. The river had inexorably pushed her further down, sweeping past familiar landmarks until all she saw was a blur and all she could think of was keeping her head above water.

_This is a river._

Orsino’s sad, dead eyes stare unblinking back into hers. Blood is splattered everywhere, over her Circle robe, over Marian’s chapped cheeks, over Aveline’s guard uniform. The corpses of the mages already killed have fallen away from the First Enchanter’s body, horribly desiccated and mutilated.

“Blood magic,” Fenris grunts, pushing Orsino’s corpse gingerly with his foot. “They did right to lock you away.”

“Why are you saying this?” she says weakly. “What can I do about it?”

“Shut up, Fenris,” Marian says absently. “This isn’t the time.”

It didn’t help. _Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is the curse for being born with magic; having to watch the ones you love die, and it being your fault. Or be the one holding the knife._

Marian’s eyes are dry, but the knife she carries is slick with blood, and Merrill notices how she keeps the little blade sheathed near her heart. “Come on. Let’s find Meredith and put her down.”

The hallways that once Merrill found familiar are horribly changed. The corpses of mages lie everywhere, even young apprentices. Every few feet, she sees one that she used to teach, and she has to concentrate everything on just putting one foot in front of the other. Isabela throws her a concerned glance. “Kitten?”

“I’m all right.”

Isabela snorts. “If any of us are all right in here, then I’m a hurlock.”

The Gallows courtyard is filled with templars. Meredith has summoned all the templars in the Order here. She sees Carver at Meredith’s side, and has to glance down. _Creators, don’t let it be me that has to kill him._

“Hawke,” Meredith says, stepping forwards and hefting her sword. “Come to share the fate of all mages.”

Cullen steps forwards. “Knight-Commander, I thought we were going to arrest the Champion.”

“She is no champion!” Meredith says, swinging the sword around to point at Cullen. “She is a mage and a blight upon this city. She _will_ be cut out!”

“Try it,” Marian says. “With that fancy new lyrium sword you’ve got. You should’ve asked Varric what that idol did to his brother.”

“I wield this in the defense of the weak.” Meredith slices through the air, and Merrill feels the lyrium hum now – how was she blind to it for so long? “The Maker will guide my hand to smite you!”

“You’ll have to go through me,” Cullen says, unsheathing his sword. Merrill glances at Carver, and he looks back at her, his mouth curving into a _smile_ of all things. Then he steps forward. “And me.”

She closes her eyes for a brief second. _Creators, thank you._

Meredith’s eyes widen. “You’ve fallen prey to blood magic? You all have!” She spins around, swinging the lyrium sword at the templars, who tumble backwards in their haste to escape. “You’re all weak, letting the blood mages into your minds! I don’t need any of you!”

She slams the point of the sword into the ground, releasing a Smite at the same time that knocks them all back. “Blessed are those that stand before the corrupt and wicked and _do not falter_!”

The lyrium has helped her to become extraordinarily powerful. As Merrill dodges her attacks, and flings spell after spell in her direction, she hears the hum of lyrium in the air, feels the Veil ripple as Meredith fades half-in, half-out of it. The lyrium transports her to superhuman strength, making her immune to the templars’ techniques of concentration and magic cleansing. Carver hacks and slashes at her, his face screwed up in concentration, but she never seems to be _there_ for him to land a strike. Marian follows her into the Fade and back, weaving through it, but the lyrium protects her.

Little by little, they wear her down. Aveline lunges through Meredith’s Smite, sheer willpower keeping her upright, and lands a solid blow to her leg. Fenris’ tattoos attune him to the lyrium’s effects, and her use of the lyrium’s power doesn’t affect him as much. Carver fights through the pain to wound her in the arm. Merrill draws power through the Fade and fills the Knight-Commander’s mind with horrors. Little wounds, but they help. At last, Marian knocks her back with a well-chosen spell, forcing Meredith to her knees. The Champion advances on her, ready to strike the final blow.

Meredith struggles up, flinging the sword out in front of her, but Marian nimbly jumps back. “I will not…be defeated!” She holds the sword before her in supplication. “Maker…hear your servant…”

The Knight-Commander’s eyes glow red, and her skin emanates harsh light. The sword vibrates, swirling with brighter and brighter red light until everyone has to shield their eyes. Like glass shattering, the sword explodes into fragments of lyrium, spraying Meredith. She staggers backwards, glowing brighter. The air is rent with her screams, terrible, agonizing screams. Merrill turns away.

Meredith kneels before them, a red statue with light leaking from its cracks. “Oh, Maker…” Carver mumbles, crouching before her. Merrill touches his shoulder. What else can she do?

Over Meredith’s head, Cullen and Marian lock eyes. Marian’s cool blue stare has faced down hundreds before, and Cullen is no different. After a moment, he steps back. Marian glances down at Carver, and puts her hand on his shoulder, too. Carver reaches up and grips her hand tightly. They stay like that for only a moment, and then Marian breaks his hold. Gently, irrevocably, she gives his hand a final pat, and turns for the docks.

“Carver?” Merrill whispers. He staggers to his feet and looks around like a blind man. He takes a few steps towards the templars’ quarters, then stops.

“Carver?”

When he turns to her, his blurry gaze focuses, sharpens. His mouth makes no sounds, but she sees his lips shape _Merrill_. She holds out her hand, and he reaches out, tentatively at first, but gripping firmer. Merrill takes a deep breath and walks for the exit. She pauses for a moment on the threshold, and then steps out into the night, Carver at her side.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Every morning, when she wakes up, Merrill prays _not today, don’t let it be today. Let me have one more day_. She bargains with gods she isn’t even sure exist for the privilege to be with Carver one more day.

But praying to gods only gets you so far, and she hasn’t woken up with a fresh supply of lyrium potions yet. Running through the Gallows on that last awful night, she picked up a lot of them, but he needs one every morning, and she’s running low.

Still, she wakes up with his arm around her every morning, and she can’t bring herself to wish that they were back in the Circle. She can wake him up with kisses, or snuggle back into the curve of his body and sleep away the moment when he’ll need another lyrium dose. She can imagine that they’ll get to Ferelden on the supplies they have. She can pretend. He needs her to do that.

For the first few days, no one knew. They traveled in blessed peace. She traded her Circle robes for rough homespun in the first tiny village they ran across, and wiggled her toes in the spring grass until tears ran down her face. Carver stripped off the sunshield armor and whisked her into an impromptu waltz along the seashore. For the first few days, they were like children released from the schoolroom, lovers in the first flush.

Then the news started to spread. Starkhaven’s Circle was the next to revolt, the mages having heard about the Kirkwall Circle before even the templars did. The templars were unprepared, and the city was soon plunged into the same chaos that Kirkwall had been.

That was when they started meeting refugees on the roads. People from Starkhaven, or Kirkwall, or later, as the revolution spread, from Ansburg or Ostwick or Tantervale. Not every Circle overthrew the templars; some were annulled, but that resulted in riots in the cities.

“It’s going to spread out of the Free Marches soon,” Carver said to her, one day when they stopped at a roadside tavern for dinner. “Damn Anders, but he did do a proper job of it.”

“Let’s get to Ferelden,” she suggested. “The king there is supposed to be merciful to mages. Maybe it won’t be as bad.”

“It’s a long shot,” Carver said doubtfully. “But we can try.”

Merrill didn’t say anything about their lyrium, which was even then running low so she knew that they couldn’t make it to Ferelden on her supplies. To buy lyrium was to mark you out as a mage or a templar, two things that were very bad to be. Groups of apostate mages roamed the wilderness, eager to torture anyone suspected to be a templar, or a city noble, which was considered almost as bad. Equally, templars from the cities still under templar control ventured out in bands to collect as many runaway mages as they could.

The first time they saw the templars’ work, Merrill turned aside and vomited onto the side of the road. The templars had found six mages in the area, and hung them all from a stout beech tree at the crossroads. The hoods over their heads were stained in a grotesque mockery of abomination heads. Carver held her as they walked away, but she couldn’t stop shivering.

Templars’ bodies were almost as bad. The mages had tortured them with fire and ice and lightning, until the bodies were almost unrecognizable. They hurried past these bodies, not bothering to check for lyrium potions to scrounge. Mages needed lyrium, templars needed lyrium. Why would they ever leave it behind?

Somewhere outside of Tantervale, a group of templar hunters pick up their trail. The hunters are rogues, trained in templar concentration and magic dispelling techniques. The Chantry started training them in earnest as soon as the first Circles began to fall, to seek out mages and turncoat templars. Merrill doesn’t know how they suspect that she’s a mage; perhaps she got careless and used a spell in a village, or maybe someone glimpsed the lyrium potions swathed with cloth on her belt. It doesn’t matter. Carver makes new trails, doubles back on theirs, erases their tracks, but templar hunters are well-trained, and they know it’s only a matter of time.

Merrill’s lyrium potions run out on a fine sunny morning when they’ve lost the templars for a while. Carver drinks down the last one thirstily – she’s been rationing him to half a potion per day, and he’s barely been getting by on it.

“That’s it,” she says quietly as he puts down the bottle.

“I know.” He studies his hands, which have finally stopped their shaking. “Merrill, listen…” He clears his throat. “I’ll probably be insensible by tomorrow. Please, just remember this. I love you, and whatever happens, I’m glad we had this time.”

Her throat closes up. “I’m glad we did too.” She leans over and kisses him. He pushes back the braids that have fallen on to her forehead, and cups her cheek in his palm, kissing her back more intensely. She wraps her arms around his neck and he falls backwards, pulling her down on top of him. Her legs straddle his hips, and she presses down on him, wanting more, always _more_.

There’s a faint yell from somewhere down in the forest below them, and Merrill pulls away for a moment to listen. Carver makes a noise of complaint and pulls her down again. “It’d be almost worth it for them to find us,” he says against her lips, “if we could just keep going.”

She giggles, and presses a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Don’t be silly. Come on.”

 

By nightfall, the familiar ringing in his ears has returned. The trees appear fuzzy to him, and Merrill’s voice echoes in his head. All he can think about is lyrium, lyrium, lyrium. He’s so stupid. He knew that this day would come; he should have picked up lyrium like Merrill did when they ran. Sleep brings no relief: his dreams are blue-tinted and monstrous. He stumbles through the next day in a darkened, exhausted haze, with the templar hunters pursuing them doggedly. Merrill hides their tracks as best she can, but he finds that he’s careless and is making mistakes. When they stop for dinner, his head is spinning and he feels nauseous, no matter what Merrill tries to force him to eat. She presses food on him, by turns insistent and begging, _please Carver, just eat_ , but everything seems to come from far away and isn’t very important when all he needs is more damn dust.

The next day she has to practically drag him through the hills. They’re leaving a trail that a blind hurlock could follow, but for some reason he finds that he can’t really care very much. Over the course of the entire day they cover maybe five miles of terrain. Late in the afternoon he simply collapses. His knees aren’t strong enough to hold him upright any more, and his head just _hurts_. Merrill falls down beside him, exhausted from dragging him along. The buzzing in his ears is growing intolerable. He wants to scream, to thrash, to beg and to cry for it to stop. He needs the dust, he needs it _now_ or he’s going to fly apart into a million tiny pieces.

“Carver,” she says, but her voice sounds as though she’s speaking underwater and a hundred miles away. “Carver, please, get up. They’re going to catch us.”

“Can’t,” he says. Even the one word is like fire in his throat. He curls up instinctively against the pain, like a child curling around a bellyache.

She shakes his shoulder. “Carver, please Carver,” and now she’s crying, tears falling on his skin. It feels numb. “You said you loved me, remember? I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

_I do love you_ , he wants to say. _I remember. I never forgot that for a single day._ He registers that this is the first time she’s ever said that, _Carver I love you_ , and he should say something, because that’s momentous, but he can’t make his brain and his mouth work in concert.

But he doesn’t want her to be hurt because of _him_. The image of the hanged mages stays with him still and it’s because of that he can crack open his mouth and whisper “Run. Now. Get away.”

“You told me to run once and I didn’t. Remember?” He rolls on his side and sees her tearstained face through blurry eyes. “I’m not running.”

Damn fool; he would tell her that if it didn’t hurt to talk. “For me,” he croaks. “Run. Don’t want…you to hang. Run.”

She curses, something in elvhen. Why didn’t he ever ask her about her language? Too late now. She grabs his shoulder. “Say that I was controlling you with blood magic. It won’t be your fault then. They’ll have lyrium for you.”

She’s leaving; the relief makes him laugh out loud. She looks more concerned than ever. Maybe it sounded like a cough.

“Go,” he wheezes. “Now.”

She curses again, then she’s up and running. She disappears quickly into the evening haze. He leans back and breathes again, counting each breath. It’s one hundred and seventy-two breaths later that he hears the templar hunters’ footsteps. One of them kneels down beside him, rips his shirt down to check for the sun and sword tattoo.

“Can you hear me?” one asks him. He nods.

“Where did the mage go?”

He feigns ignorance. “Dust,” he mumbles.

One of the templars makes a disgusted sound, but another one kneels down and sprinkles some lyrium into his open mouth. With the last of his willpower, Carver stays still, letting it dissolve. The lightning sensation floods through his veins and he breathes freely again, feeling so much warmer and so much better.

“Where did the mage go?” the templar asks again.

Carver shakes his head. “Don’t know. She ran.” _Yes, she ran. Thank the Maker that she ran._

“We can look for her later,” another templar argues. “This man needs care.”

“Check him for any enchantment,” the first templar says. “Better safe than sorry.”

Carver feels the familiar sensation of magic humming through his skull. The other templar stands up. “He’s clean. The mage must have released him before she ran.”

“Good. Let’s get him back.”

Two templars support Carver between them. He’s still too weak to walk, but he can raise his head and look around. As they walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. It’s probably his imagination, but he fancies he can see the glint of elven eyes following him from the bushes. Jade-green elven eyes.

 

_But I came and I was nothing_

_Time will give us nothing_

_So why did you choose to lean on_

_A man you knew was falling_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of Everybody Sees Your Lonely Heart! Lyrics at the end are from Mumford and Sons' The Enemy.


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